


Tell All

by frooit



Series: Tell All [1]
Category: Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Absolution, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, An eye for an eye, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Porn, Awkward Blow Jobs, Awkward Sexual Situations, Character Death, Claiming, Drama, Eventual Smut, FFVII/Crisis Core mash-up, First Kiss, First Time, Life Lessons, M/M, Maiming, Major Character Injury, Mental Instability, Minor Blood and Gore, Moral Dilemmas, Mutual Masturbation, Not Beta Read, Parental Issues, Porn With Plot, Rape/Non-con Elements, Redemption, Revenge, Romance, Sephiroth is a massive jerk, Slow Build, Strong Language, Tragedy, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Watching, What is going on?, Yikes, Zack's a loose cannon, also slight sword play, and Cloud fainting, and a little bit of action, and a lot of internal struggling, and a robot, and pain, creative liberties in general, creative liberties with materia, cursing, depictions of surgery, floppy POV, mindfucking, more plot than intended, oh it ended, or did it?, past zack/sephiroth, shame on Shinra, spiritual references, there are some fight scenes..., tons of helicopters, trials of love, unlikely trio, when will it end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:08:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 37
Words: 207,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frooit/pseuds/frooit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zack does his very best to protect what he loves.</p><p>This is a little story about growing older, wiser and, of course, the trials of love. There is strife, turmoil, hardships, and some good times ahead. Two people drawn together must fight to stay together, and for what they know as right. Those bent on destruction are in for a world of hurt. Prepare for ups, downs and long bouts of wondering.</p><p>Take a seat, I'll tell you all I know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Act one is done! Originally posted Jun 22, 2010 on fanfic.net. A fond and fervent THANK YOU to all the readers! Thanks for all the kind words and support (and all the other), and for hanging around and putting up with the punishment, and the pain, and the total lack of closure. You know who you are. The battle might be over, but the war is not won. Catch you on the flip side.
> 
> Listen to the Tell All [music mix](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL_1j9jMAD3ImD05O-H8ltFqZOy4E_RSfx). It's a collection of the various songs listened to while writing this damn story. Theme music, mood music, battle anthems, oh my. There's some good chill stuff in there too. I highly approve.

_This is it._

He's not exactly smooth or cool, or under control. Zack doesn't know whether he's coming or going half the time, and you know, that might bother some people but it's never really bothered him. It's not every day that you're fighting for a truly perfect ideal, a brighter future. It's not every day that you're looked upon to do great things, and get to carry them out. Maybe he's a romantic, or a dreamer, but this is what he believes. He believes Shinra is for the better of the people. They're moving the world forward.

He'll make 'em proud, his ma' and his dad. They always told him that he had a one-track mind hidden somewhere under all that chaos, and that much was true. Shinra this, SOLDIER that. It's all he talked about growing up (back in that place, that forever ago place...). It was always: _I'm gonna be the greatest, the strongest. I'm gonna be a hero._ He's so close to that dream, nearly a part of it, but for now, he's just another cog in the machine.

How quickly things change will always surprise Zack. He's too damn busy looking forward, looking always further rather than seeing what was around him to notice the signs. He never slowed until he met a brick wall. And only at that end, that point of no return, when there's nothing left to do but take a step back, would he stop. No wonder it's always a sucker punch that knocks him on his ass. No matter how many times it happens, it always gets him. You'd think you'd develop an eye for this sort of thing.

Not him.

 

 

_First impressions._

Zack should be getting himself into trouble. He honestly should have been kicked out or suspended. There was that fire incident in the barracks to think about, and the loose birds in the cafeteria, and then the laundry room fiasco. Everyone remembers that one. There's a good enough reason for everything though, or at least a good enough excuse, and the reason slash excuse he's still here? Is that he responds too well to their training. Even for their own liking, you know. Certain things he does, and certain character flaws he has have gone overlooked. As long as the incidents were small enough, and involved as few cadets as possible, he was shiny. That should be his credo.

They love his unflagging determination, his unyielding strength, his desire to win. He is their current most promising graduate. Along with a swelled ego, that title has given him certain advantages. One of these advantages is freedom. To roam and rove and ask too many questions of too many unsuspecting Shinra employees. You'd think it would be the other way around, constant surveillance and confinement, but someone upstairs sees things differently. Constant input, perpetual stimulation, is a necessity for a voracious personality like Zack's. Call it his medicine. He was _officially_ diagnosed anyway. _Hyperactive_ and _excitable_ were recurring words in his first evaluations.

Freedom is only what you could do with it though. He kept finding himself with less and less chances to exercise the privilege. His mother would say something about demons and idle hands here. As if to prove this, his instructors have filled his days with as much training and exams and briefings and evaluations, and whatever else, as possible. No free time meant no idle hands, meant no problems for them later. Perfectly played then, Shinra.

He _would_ be causing trouble, outside his SOLDIER barometers, but all the downtime he now stumbles across he just spends in the dormitory, sleeping away the day's aches and pains, hibernating before the next buzz from his cell phone, or the next barked demands. As he is, he has the pleasure of separate lodgings. If you happened to find yourself lower on the totem pole (e.g., militia, pilots, artillery, medical, the list rolls on) you sleep in group rooms. Bunks for miles, shared bathrooms, and no privacy. Albeit they were segregated by class, they still slept toe to toe, balls to elbows. The SOLDIER dorms, that's where he's heading. For a midday nap. Good enough time as any to test Shinra's otherwise unscrupulous eye. He was supposed to be up in Advanced Materia Testing, but fire balls and blizzards can wait. Beauty sleep calls.

There are branches of rooms on either side as he goes along. Sitting areas and vending machine alcoves, and long corridors with doors inside numbered up to as many as they go. He catches something just then. Vibrations. Voices carry in this place. He slows his breathing and halts his pace to listen. Cursing. Yelling. A fight? It's a growing resonance in the halls, a radiation off the walls, an echoing. Zack moves on, helpless either way, because the SOLDIER dorms are further down that way. He doesn't have much hope of finding the source before someone else does and breaks it up, but he gets lucky. Or not. It really depends on how you look at it.

Four boys, three of which stand opposing the one left over, occupy the hall ahead. A large glass window outlines their presence, darkness smudging on inky halos. The boy opposing the larger crew has his back to Zack. Blonde hair erupts from his head, the direction of which looks purely random. Some fringes jet forwards and some back, some straight down, some straight up. _Porcupine_ is Zack's first thought. His second is malformed, as a cry lets loose from the threesome's side, a fist follows tandem, catching the singular boy as much by surprise as Zack, and sending him back. The jab crashes into the boy's chin. He would have fallen if he hadn't found Zack's arms, or Zack's arms hadn't found him. The whole of his weight in his hands and he feels like nothing.

"Whoa", Zack says, just air between his teeth.

He doesn't react so much from his head as from his gut. His first conclusion falls under wonder, this second epiphany is scorching like anger. And he grimaces. His reputation on it's own should be enough, but he can't help but make it worse. His teeth grit, forcing his jaw tighter and tighter, _click click click_. That sound must be resonating now too. The threesome flinch and take a collective step back. The air tingles with anticipation, possibility.

"You shouldn't bother yourself with him," one of the three warns.

"And why's that?" Zack asks.

He erects the singular boy to his feet, giving him a good pat on the back. The uniform is ironed to perfection and off-the-shelf new. His shoulders are stiff and hunched, his face angled towards the floor. Zack distracts himself from that for now, and looks back to the threesome, but it doesn't pay out. They've already gone.

"Geez."

He smiles, despite the boy's disinterest.

"I guess I need to work on my people skills."

Cue silence. Heavy silence. Zack has a good memory, and an even better eye. He's never seen this one around before. He wouldn't have missed a mop like that. New cadets are old hat sure, but this one. _This_ one.

The silence remains.

_Break it for the love of Gaia._

"Um, yo. My name's Zack."

This boy, he has no idea what he's about to do as he looks up. This boy, thin and small and strange, he lifts his chin to reveal his face, and Zack is stunned. Well, because he's stunning, and that's the best he's got. The silence then is a different shade of awkward discomfort, and heavy weight, and Zack can't think of anything else to string together to use as a charming opener, so he stares.

A cut splits his well-shaped lips. Living red adds highlight to the impeccable symmetry of soft angles and smooth edges and white, white skin. Zack can't find the will to pull his eyes away, and he isn't sure of much else in that moment. He's busy being reminded of the ocean, those eyes like horizon. The depth and length are endless. But, the boy is miserable. He can taste it, he can feel it, it's wafting off him like a fever.

"Thanks," the boy utters and turns to make tracks.

"Hey, _wait_."

His face becomes blank in profile, sterile, as if not to insight a reactive emotion. But, it doesn't work on Zack. He's an entirely different breed than what he must be used to dealing with. This null expression makes Zack persistent, it only seals the deal, as they would say, last nail in the coffin.

"What's your name?"

"Strife."

_Well, ain't that the truth._

So, for days after their meeting, Zack's thinking his parents must have been able to see the future, with a name like that.

 

 

_Rec Room_

"What? You mean that little shit?"

"He looks like a fucking girl."

"I bet he is."

"Hah! Work in a pinch then."

Gales of laughter.

Some things never change. Boys will be boys. You could take from them their freedom, their vices, you could direct their boundless energy, their hungry minds, but... you couldn't take out the animal, the desire, the fire. Not that Shinra truly wanted to. The barracks are a cesspool of libido and testosterone. Things happened there that Shinra does its finest to keep on the down low, the subterranean down low. Still, it works to their advantage. A bunch of under-sexed, strung out, aggravated boys do a lot for pussy.

_Although, there's always the alternative._

Zack has a bone to pick. And he's not exactly a small guy either, he can comfortably get involved. He's honed in on the group laughing and grab-assing while he does his curls. A daily thing. A required thing. Couldn't have the aspiring 1st class SOLDIER getting soft, could we? Fifty pounds for twenty minutes, each arm, no exceptions (that last part is optional). It's just a dent in his routine. His isn't as extensive as some of the other SOLDIER 3rd class routines, but that's because he's distracted. That's because he has an agenda, and he's coming this way.

The blonde. _Singular blonde boy_.

Zack brings the dumbbell up to his shoulder and back down again, keeping an eye on him.

"Hey, sexy!"

Zack perks.

"I'll give you a smoke for a bj."

This cadet is holding a cigarette out to the boy. Coincidentally, it's one of the boys from his earlier encounter. The dumbbell sags in Zack's arm.

"Oh, come on Strife, don't give me that face. What's your real name anyway?"

A momentary pause.

"Cloud."

And there it is.

One of the boys in the group snorts.

" _Claude_?"

"Okay, Claude."

"It's Cloud."

The cigarette turns in the cadet's fingers. He moves to put it between Cloud's lips but he jerks away, the cut still so fresh.

"Oh! I like the feisty ones."

Cloud's had enough and starts off, one foot leading the other, but it's not so easy. A hand latches onto his forearm and he's stopped cold. He does what anyone would do in that situation though, and tries to pull away. He's shoved down onto a bench behind, and the other cadet, cigarette still in hand, looms above.

"Not so fast," he says.

There's not much warning when Zack latches his own fingers into the cadet's shoulder, a mimicry. Zack's grip is wild and whatever it wants to be, and it wants to be cruel. The boy jumps and shoots a look back. Attention disrupted, Cloud melts away. Meanwhile, Zack's face is unforgiving, cold, alarming contrast to his smiling norm. He stands a full foot taller (and maybe a bit more) than the cadet. It's played off however, as Zack receives a casual, cautious, but always cool, laugh from him.

"He's spoken for then?" he asks.

"You need to chill out," Zack suggests.

" _Chill out_ , huh?"

The hand is shrugged off, Zack's grip gone loose.

"Fuck off, Fair."

Zack snatches the cigarette from him and places it on his own lips, the offending piece now twisting in his teeth. He's not quite ready to level this kid, but he's close. He takes a bite into the filter and waits for retaliation, or words. It comes in the form of retreat. Cigarette boy (formerly), and the rest of the group, disperse and sulk away, moving on to bigger and badder things. Cloud is nowhere to be found afterward. Stepping over his forgotten dumbbell, Zack abandons the curls, abandons his training, and goes on the hunt.

"You can't smo—"

Just a drifting voice.

"I know."

The rest of the day _nearly_ goes on the same as it ever would, but he's not looking for fun, or action, he's skipping out on training for smoke breaks, and looking for him, the boy. But, he doesn't spot him. Not that he doesn't try. He hasn't yet gone so far as asking about him, like he should have, but some things are better not broadcast. Not just yet. Not around here. He's already going against his normality.

Cloud Strife.

He has a name at the very least.

 

 

_Status: 3rd Class - Mission #27 - air drop_

Thinking right now is all you can do. They call this the calm before the storm. You're supposed to be relaxing, expunging complex thought, breathing even, slow, and getting your heart rate down, but that's not what Zack is doing. He's got his grip tight on the safety bar, the only thing holding him back from falling so many hundreds of feet to an unpleasant consequence. The chopper banks, he banks with it, head rolling, pitching. And he just can't stop thinking.

Red lips, teeth, a smiling mouth. A smooth, wet tongue. Wire-long fingers. He hasn't had day dreams like this since Gongaga. The atmosphere, the feeling of it, it's surreal and tense, thick. There doesn't seem to be enough air in the world to fill his lungs. He's utterly breathless and yet it's whipping into his face, stinging at his eyes. The smell of warm flesh and the feeling of it. It would be soft, but a cushion of muscle would be there working underneath, firm and sinewy. His hands, palms, fingertips, they would do the seeing as his eyes would be closed. Shuddering glimpses, lightning strike pictures. Blue eyes, innocent, trusting. A frame slight but defined. Small but tough. The hair to brush against his cheek would be feathery soft, smelling clean and virginal. A breath would whisper, lips so close tiny hairs perk, receptive. The breath would be a word...

Crackling interference and then the pilot's voice.

_"You got two minutes, boys."_

And the word would be...

Zack's body aches, his bones ache.

The word would be his name.

_Zack._

From a mouth he'll soon make his own.

He jumps early.


	2. Chapter 2

_Mission #27 - Wutai, ground zero_

It's a show like no other, this one is: a mish-mash of red and amber and orange and pink and a burst of yellow just there, just enough to remind him, even here and now, miles away, that he can't shake the boy from his head. The sunset, a cherished Wutai treasure, swells in the sky, smearing across the horizon, bold and awesome, and still, his thoughts are on the boy. All he's noted out there is the golden yellow, like the colour of his hair, as bright as the flaming out Sun.

He turns to check over his squad. They're organized and ready to move, nothing much on their minds but getting the precious combat experience and getting back home. They're all hungry boot camp grunts. He knows how this should feel, how the excitement used to get his blood pumping. He's heard mentions, from his men, and his superiors, that this is his calling. The loose, bouncing energy, the tension, the promise of fame and glory on the other side. It's fueled his cause up to now.

In this vital moment though, it all feels wrong. These are familiar settings and actions, but with none of the familiar feelings.

He leads the squad forward into unfriendly land, the razor-fine foliage claustrophobic and wild and difficult to move through. It's good cover all the same, and Zack pushes them forward. It will be mere minutes before they reach occupied territory and soon their destination. The weight in his gut, the growing dread, it's only getting worse. He's starting to feel like he's going to lose something, like he's about to forfeit an opportunity, and with every step forward it's slipping farther away.

It's all quite terrifying, and new to him. Uncertainty is not a trait one desires during an objective, or in a commanding officer. Victory is decided in the mind, they tell you. It's mind over matter. It's over before it even begins. And, further more, Wutai isn't just a country of farmers. The landscape is crawling, he knows, and with the paranoid soldiers of an invaded kingdom. Wutai is waiting out there in the doused light, waiting for the fight. The air is clogged and stagnant, hell fire anticipated. 

Even with reservations, Zack can't bear to disappoint.

 

 

_Midgar - upper plates_

Coming back to the roar of the deluded populous never felt so good.

They're cheering almost as loudly as they would for Sephiroth.

Almost.

His boys are bruised, bloodied and knocked around, but every hand reaches out as they go by, wanting to congratulate, wanting to touch victory for themselves. Like lost or forgotten family members they pat and salute them, clapping, smiling, dismissing their worries. Shinra trumpets their return too, the sound deafening. The shindig is only possible because of their love of good press. Publicizing these Wutai "relief" missions puts them in good light. For all the public knows, for all they've been told, Wutai started the war (but Zack is learning that isn't true). With that slight spin, his raggedy squad look like wounded war heroes, and Shinra as a whole, the righteous protector.

He smiles despite himself and babies the torn ligament in his shoulder, the worst of his injuries. It's a shame not to, you know. All the infectious grinning faces, anonymous and everywhere, so intent on _you_ , and what you're all about. They're heroes, even if the public doesn't know the logistics and the truth. Even if they don't know that their's was a smash and grab job, and many Wutai people lost their lives in ways now romanticized by the public, and papers, to bolster their own justifications for the acts. No, they weren't dying to save their country, or to preserve a way of life, they were dying as villains and thieves. And that makes Midgar cheer.

_War is hell._

They sift through the crowd, nearing the prominent headquarters building, Shinra Tower, and the blaring trumpeters. As they gradually flank the entrance, rounding the numerous front stone steps, more commotion is illuminated. The President is mid-speech, pointing and jeering up on his platform suspended above the crowd. The sharply angled podium drips with garish crimson banners.

Zack only makes out _dedication_ and _fearlessness_ through the whine and crackle of the speakers. The grandiose, matter-of-fact tone turns his stomach. He can see Sephiroth, blank and uninterested, standing off and behind the dwarfed (in so many ways) President, and that turns his stomach too. He's a sign of ill deeds and bad omens, but the people love him. Zack quickly looks away, spotting something else, something yellow, a signal that doubles his heart rate.

Cloud stands at attention with his troop, lining the steps leading to the tower's main doors. He has his face turned upwards, towards that raised platform, and there's a wonder struck face if Zack ever saw one. He doesn't have to think twice of who might be causing that down right covetous expression, he already knows. He manufactured that road. It's something like Hopeless Lane, Lost Cause Avenue, Inflamed Ego Way. It tastes like betrayal, bitter and dry, and stings of old fear. Something difficult for him to swallow even now. That adoration and love is getting hard to remember.

He has to spin around and walk backwards to keep him in his sights. The boy, so much blond hair and new ideas and hopes, he looks to him then, directly at him. And Zack sees something that ignites his black-powder blood, something enormous against Cloud's pale and washed-out complexion. It's a bruise, and it blots most of his cheek bone and edges the orbit of his left eye. What a lovely addition to his already busted lip.

Zack can no longer force his smile.

_Those degenerate fucks._

They part the last wall of their regaling, thrashing spectators to end the parade. His squad continues walking beyond, entering the barracks adjoining the main headquarters.

 

 

_Shinra Barracks - SOLDIER level #3_

After missions, Zack doesn't go to a regular medical unit, he goes to a specialist. It's a lot less thrilling than it's made out to be, and it almost always means mako showering or needles or long hours of monitoring (and inoculations, and blood testing). It's an unpleasant additive to being a SOLDIER, but Zack takes it in begrudging stride. If it keeps him off a gurney and under the wide blue sky, why not? Give him an hour of mako osmosis and prodding white coats any day.

Despite the torn muscles, the possible broken bones, a bullet hole, and sliced flesh, he's already out and about and nearly alive again, two hours after their return. When you're who he is, SOLDIER 3rd class, you get roughly five minutes down time a day (not including the medical attention), and that's just an estimation. If you don't have the stamina of a pack of wild dogs like he does, that might be a problem. As things are going, he's running low on that canine enthusiasm.

Bribing time to stretch that five minute dead zone into something longer and lucrative, isn't easy, but it can be done. At the very least, he remembers weaknesses, and Zack's head specialist has an easy one. He butters him up with a couple reassuring words, and four cigarettes, and takes his leave of the med wing, moving down the halls towards the elevators. He has to move quickly in order to find Cloud before someone realizes he's gone and wants him somewhere else. Regular procedure would have him reporting to the Director right about now. Shinra and stalled productivity are not good bedfellows. They could always suspend him. They could always demote him. But, _they could, they should_ , sounds so distant.

 

 

_Shinra Tower elevator_

You couldn't classify Zack as a bad kid or a troubled youth. He was hardly a kid to begin with, and besides, he always means well. It's just that his determination and head-strong nature being useful, rather than detrimental, remains to be seen. Overzealous and excitable and Zack have all been spoken in the same sentences before. Many previous evaluations have sounded as follows: _He doesn't always think things through, he runs on pipe dreams and childish emotion, he's a disaster waiting to happen_. It's all a proceeding reputation he doesn't yet know he's made for himself. A cycle, like reverse telephone, distorted information gradually becoming clear. They all have it out for him. The Wheel of Fortune, Cosmo Canyon's karma, the Maker. From day one.

And now he's been AWOL for half an hour, with still no such luck spotting the boy. Dormitory down, cafeteria down, rec room down... He has few options left. The training levels, SOLDIER, Midgar sectors. He wouldn't be on SOLDIER floors, by reason of security access, so... Zack depresses the button for training floor #1, level A. Rest and relaxation? No. Fewer repercussions? No. That's not what he's looking for, he wants a name, a place, and immortality. He wants to be the best. And when you're the best, you don't give in, you don't give up, and you never throw away hope. You always see things to the end.

Whether you know what to expect or not.

 

 

_Shinra Barracks - training floor #1, level A_

The elevator chimes and the doors glide open. He may not know what to expect, but the potential is there, and the hope with it. In Zack's world, this glowing bright thing, this unit of endless possibility, he stays positive. Never quite ready for when that damn sucker punch comes, but at the very least, he'll be shining and smiling when it does. As it rains down, hammers down, he will smile and smile. He'll stay cool and collected and find Cloud, and maybe he'll be glad to see him, or, more instinctual doubt, he could be somewhere else completely, not even in this damn building, or this fucking city.

"Happy thoughts..." he says under his breath.

The training facility is branched off into several categories on a single floor. One by one by one, you guessed it, Zack starts from the far end and works his way along aerobics, aquatics, explosives, hand-to-hand, weights, and more. It's a near endless selection of so-called Shinra conditioning. They will make you stronger and faster and as docile as infants, if they so desired. He finds himself at the opposite end of the floor before long, near the locker rooms and the showers, and it's looking grim.

"This would be my first one."

"Pop that cherry."

Several voices rise from inside the locker room. They shoot back and forth.

"Who's the 3rd Class they're sending again? I can't keep them straight. "

"Fair."

Zack stops. He closes in and listens.

"Northern Continent... The fuck's out there anyway?"

"I dunno. Freeze our balls off though, thas' for sure."

"How many?"

"Just a few, Hardin said. Maybe ten."

"Damn."

"Are you nervous, Cloud?"

Delight tingles. He creeps closer to listen.

"Should I be?"

"Well, if this is your _first one_ , I would be."

"I'm not sure how I feel," Cloud answers.

"Ooh, mysterious Cloud over here. Just don't wet yourself when we go in."

Gales of laughter.

A beat later, Cloud is almost head-butting Zack as he's exiting the locker rooms.

"What..." he starts.

Zack has to think quickly (which has never been his strong suit).

"I, uh... I was just coming down to... brief... everyone. Didn't mean to scare you."

Cloud eyeballs him, an eternally long inspection. That damned cut lip and angry bruise is a distraction from the whole picture, and the present situation. It's obvious he doesn't trust him. He can hear the thoughts now.

_This guy again, what the hell?_

"Oh," Cloud says.

"How—"

_Beep, beep._

Cloud's eyebrows rise.

Zack's cellphone has a new message.

_Never a better time._

He pulls it out and flips it open.

 _You're about to get fucked_ , the message reads.

_Kunsel, you son of a bitch._

"Actually, never mind," he tells Cloud. "I've got... a problem."

"A problem?" Cloud asks.

He leaves him there staring after him, soft lips swollen and bright bruise a promise.

A promise that he can take the pain, the hurt, and he'll bounce right back.

 

 

He's on the phone in a flash. Kunsel picks up after the first ring.

"So why am I fucked?" he asks him.

"Hello to you too. The Director..."

Zack's heart sinks and his shoulders shrug.

"...has been asking about you. Apparently he wants to give you some new assignment. Where the hell are you anyway?"

"Vacation," he answers.

Silence, and then, "Alright," a touch annoyed.

Zack reaches the elevators and knocks the call button with his knuckles.

Kunsel continues. "Get your ass up here as soon as possible. Remember, I'm still 2nd Class. Don't make me pull rank."

The doors glide open and Zack steps inside. "Wouldn't want you to have to do that," he remarks.

"I'm serious," Kunsel deadpans.

The line clicks.

The metal doors slide closed.

 

 

_Shinra Tower elevator_

Fuck up number two goes down as bad timing. Fuck up number one was good timing but bad follow through. If he keeps up like this he'll never talk to the kid. What are they going to talk about anyway? What exactly is he hoping for? What exactly is the end game? He doesn't know. He doesn't really care. It's a chance for a change, a chance for something new and exciting, and not corrosive or evil.

He's looking for his Holy Grail, his Golden Fleece.

 

 

_SOLDIER Executive level #1_

He doesn't much like the meetings with the Director, but no one is yelling or pointing fingers or even asking where he's been for the last hour and a half, so he can't ask for much else. It's been strictly business. He's telling him to do this and that, in the name of Shinra, and in return, he'll be promoted. And he likes promotions, doesn't he? Yes, he does. That will make him a 2nd class, and all the closer to his little dream. His cute, little, small-town boy aspirations of greatness.

Regardless, the Director exudes disapproval. He does this to Sephiroth too, so maybe it isn't personal. Chalk it up to a personality defect. Just look at Kunsel's love of drama and ham sandwiches, and Zack's obsession with a certain title and a certain person. No one's perfect. Speculations aside, he has twelve hours to get his shit together for the upcoming mission. Ten untrained soldiers under his control in a land frozen, dead and empty, across the sea.

What could go wrong?

 

 

_Mission #28 - briefing_

Gearing up has to be a love hate relationship for Zack. He's right there between loving the goodies Shinra endlessly provides, and just wanting to get out there and mess some stuff up. He's like a jungle cat caged. Just let him loose to do his thing.

He adjusts his broad sword, his weapon of choice, and takes another well-deserved breath to calm himself. Something so simple never so needed unless in a pinch. Again, he feels unusual apprehension, and it's only magnified by the presence of Cloud. His senses are heightened, and his stress. He can feel the chill in the crisp air. They don't heat these buildings, and it's cold steel for miles. Mako gushes throughout their workings, but none spared on comfort. Not in a machine of war.

Helmets, light armour, firearms, ammo, provisions. Zack takes inventory. He checks his ragtag team once more (last chance), and then gets them moving out, ushering them through the door, one by one, to the landing pad outside. One by one, he puts a hand on their shoulder and spins his usual captain jargon. _You got this, don't balk, keep your head on straight._ Lastly, it's Cloud's turn, and he hesitates. One quick ride on a chopper and they'll be ass deep in snow, looking for a forest no one is sure even exists. He better turn on this SOLDIER everyone hears about. He better stop this hesitation crap, and the moon eyes.

He claps a hand down on Cloud's back.

He jumps.

"Sorry, man," Zack apologizes.

Cloud looks up to him, their difference in height staggering.

"You ready?" Zack asks him, something he's never said to any of his men before him.

"Yes sir," Cloud answers.

 

 

_Northern Continent - air drop_

When things go wrong around Zack they don't just go wrong (we're not talking lost socks or missing lighters or broken insert objects here), it's catastrophic or go home. People die, or get shot up, or lose bits of themselves. They scream, they beg, they bleed out. It's every man for himself when the powers that be decide to rock the boat, and they usually rock his boat until it's good and sunk.

Their departure from Midgar is supposed to bring them to their destination, the ghost continent, around sun down. If there are any hostiles on the frozen hunk of land they offload on, which is unlikely, the breaking light will minimize their visibility. A smooth insertion, a smooth mission. This puts a hell of a strain on the pilot, yes, but they have every confidence. Not much can be said of that confidence now though. The pilot is burning, slowly cremating, back inside the busted chopper.

Back with everyone else.

How quickly things change will always surprise Zack.

 

 

They were maybe twenty minutes out, red lights on, pilot marking off the minutes, counting down to go time, jump time, mission start. Every single one of the boys had their helmets on and visors down. He lost Cloud to the anonymity, the sameness. And then a sharp jolt demanded his attention, and he turned to the pilot, air waves crackling, ready to ask some sort of question, but that's as far as he got. A bright white was then consuming his vision, and a blackness, late-coming, advanced to eclipse.

It happened in an instant.

 

 

He now opens his eyes to a dark blue sky overhead, a blue-black sheet spotted and marked by the dots of stars. They're twinkling and winking, multi-coloured, and he doesn't find that odd at first. It's the smell of gasoline, exhaust, or smoke, that gets him up in a flash. And what he finds is the chopper alight, torched red and orange, yards away from where he finds himself laid out in snow. Now he sees the bodies, some face down, some twisted and charred, some half buried in ice. They're here and there, otherwise in darkness but for the fire burning off the helicopter. He counts four in all. There were ten of them, eleven if you included the pilot.

He thrashes through the powdery stuff to reach the closest body. It's cold to the touch, but that might just be his numb fingers and the elements. He tears the helmet off, heart rate steady for the moment, lump rising in his throat cooperating. There's a moment of not knowing, and then mocking relief.

The body is not him, it's just a dead soldier.

He drops the helmet and stands to trudge to the next victim. This uniform is a crackling black mess, fleshy red fingers visible through flame eaten gloves. What little armour they have equipped is now melted and smoking. The helmet is intact but turned in an unnatural (and terrifying) way. He doesn't want to do it, but.

_Please, oh please..._

He's tentative in removing this helmet, careful not to pull or twist, but it's not him.

That lump grows on every swallow, his guts sickening with the not knowing.

Just two more to go in this twisted game. Two more chances for desperate, insane hope.

And utter defeat.

The next body he comes to is face up and smoking. He's singed, not blackened, and his helmet is even more askew on his head than the last (as if it were too large or knocked by a great force). Zack can believe the great force part. As he looks on, he notes the visor is cracked and jagged, and red smears the inside. It's starting to drip from the lip and mar the snow. It's one hell of a sight.

He gets to his knees and takes a second for himself, just a second, prepping. He composes and breathes, he gets a hand on either side of the wrecked helmet and he begins to pull upwards, slow, slowly, slower.

Holy Grail, Golden Fleece, and here's the hair to match.

The realization forces out all the held breath inside him. He would have fallen on his ass, given up, cried, vomited, but he's Zack, and he's bedrock, and besides, Cloud twitches. He knows that muscles spasm after death (that's nothing new to him), but this twitch is followed by a groan, and dead people don't groan.

"Oh, fuck. Hey, _hey_. Hey, are you..." he rambles, that growing throat lump preventing any more.

Cloud's really not okay. The visor that was supposed to protect him cracked inward during the crash, sending glass into his already bruised left eye. There's not much left there now but gobs of clotting and streaming blood, and shreds of (what Zack hopes is) flesh. Cloud's right eye is untouched, spherical and ocean blue. It's glued on him. He's got to be in shock.

"Don't move," Zack orders. He runs his numb fingers down each of Cloud's arms, over his chest, and abdomen, and down each leg. He's feeling for the wetness of blood or a distortion, a protruding bone, or waiting for him to cry out in pain. But, he's good, he's solid. Beyond the eye problem.

"Can you hear me?" he asks.

"Kind of," Cloud responds, gritting it out and then coughing.

"Okay, okay... We need to get away from this thing."

Fire is warm, yes, but explosions are bad. Zack moves behind Cloud and holds out his arms. After an agonizing effort, Cloud lifts his own, his ruined face showing the struggle, and takes the offered hands. He allows him to drag him through the drift, rather than picking him up and causing new damage or exacerbating what already might exist. He pulls him far enough away from the danger of combustion and lets go. The warmth is missed, the contact is missed. Zack now squats next to him.

"I'm going to check for others."

"Sure." Cloud's voice is dampened, rasping.

There's nothing and no one left. The chopper burns on as he watches, tattooing the surrounding area and licking at the sky. Now they have no supplies, no radio, nothing. He watches and tries to think. He has his broadsword, but they're not expected back for several days. Missing units aren't cataloged until ten or some hours after official mission end time, and, come to think of it, this mission wasn't given an official end time. Or, he was never notified. They're going to be here for some time then.

He returns to Cloud. No words are exchanged for minutes, hours, no one keeps track. He sits close, nice and close, and shares his heat. And he thinks.

"Zack..." Cloud whispers, after an age.

"Huh?"

"What's wrong with my eye?"

He's not facing him, they're back to back. He won't have to make the contact, or see his reaction.

"It's... gone," he says.

He could have done better.

The silence returns, only to be broken again by Cloud.

"You're bleeding," he says, a little louder.

Zack looks over and then feels it, the pull in his back and side, the sting. He uses his numb fingers as best he can to find the wound. It's along his side, gouging through flesh and fabric, deep but manageable. It's seeping blood into Cloud's uniform from behind.

"I guess I am."


	3. Chapter 3

_Aborted mission - Northern Continent_

At the very least they won't soon die of dehydration. Everywhere you look it's crystallized water. It blusters against their faces and swirls, clotted, depositing light white layers taller and taller on. It's promising to bury them if they stay too long.

They can’t linger if no one’s coming for days. Leaving a crash sight is not what they tell you to do in an emergency, but Zack has to get them to shelter if he plans on having them survive long enough to be found at all. And he does plan on it. Surviving. With every fibre of his somewhat diluted being. He's going to save Cloud. Whatever happens. Come hell or high... snow drift. 

He can put his own minor injury aside, and some of the anxieties, but he can't do anything about those that were lost. As he's looking out at the wreckage and seeing them, turned and torched, and dead as doornails, it's his standing as a leader, his role, and his strength, that he starts to question. Their lives are done, their voices silenced, ideals forgotten. It's hard fact (hard learned) that they will soon be skipped over or over-glorified by Shinra and Midgar, and anyone else who cared to listen. They’ll be used and abused. Their families and their friends will be manipulated and assured those people-shaped voids are going to melt away, along with the memory of their faces, voices, and favourite television shows. All for the cause.

He was supposed to protect them, guide them...

_Great example, Fair._

"I've got to do something," he blurts.

Cloud doesn't quickly respond. Head tilted down to chest, he just is.

"Hey..." Zack nudges him.

That sticky fear's back.

"Hey, _Cloud_."

Truth is, it never left.

"Sure," Cloud’s muffled voice urges.

Reluctantly, Zack moves away, disconnecting their tangled attempts at staying warm, and his tangled attempts at an embrace. His arm he drags over Cloud’s skinny shoulders, Cloud's forehead lifts from his breastbone, arms opening. Human origami.

The break in body heat already starts to eat at him, whittling, chipping. The chill will most certainly win. And now, sitting there in the drift, hunched over and alone, like a frigid corpse, it must be killing Cloud.

_He's going to die. Go under. Never wa—shut up. Get moving. Set the boys out. Away from the crackling and flame-spitting chopper, and then find a cave, or dig a damn hole, and crawl into it. Get Cloud's face cleaned up, get him warm. Get a move on._

He can do this.

_Stay positive._

"Okay," Zack says to himself, breathy as a sigh.

 

 

They're on a cliff.

This isn't exactly good news. It's a long way to the bottom as far as the snow won't let him see. It could be feet or yards, ten or twenty straight down. He just doesn't know. It’s a blank white page out there. It masks the ocean and all the miles between them and the eastern continent and Midgar, and relative safety.

Rocks jut and climb behind, an unbroken line of mountain at their backs. From what he sees, the heavy cloud cover might have blinded the pilot and he never would have spotted the ridge anyway. They're lucky they made land at all.

Mountain side to cliff dive, it looks like a distance of ninety feet (by his six foot stride). Their current location, the space in between—blanketed in equal amounts snow and despair—runs off like a ribbon to a point he can't quite gauge. There’s either more disappointment or further options to be found at either end. Somewhere before that ridge, through the haze of white and black (yin and yang), Cloud is between a rock, a hard place and their potential way out.

Zack has to find it, over or under, let's not be picky, or there's nothing can be done. He can't afford to have Cloud out in this much longer. The weather aside, the kid's running on nothing but temporary adrenaline and neurological shock. When that wears off ( _if_ , where the shock's concerned) he doesn't want them to be where something might pick up on it, even in this snow storm.

He can be hopeful, but if he wants to be practical, he should think an injury like that won't go quietly into the night. Simple fractures have cost him enough agony, squirming and hissing. This is a gouged eye we're talking about. This isn't pop over to the pharmacy and get a remedy, this is drag out the damn body bag. And dammit if Shinra’s getting stingy too. They didn't administer materia this time around. 

He sets out the three fallen cadets, side by side, far enough removed for Cloud to see. He'd checked for pulses before, now he’s checking in pockets and supply kits, hoping for something useful, anything at all. What he finds is half a pack of cigarettes, several ammo magazines, a bent stick of gum, two combs, one rifle, two emergency med kits, a grenade, and a crumpled receipt. Not to mention, a few cellphones, loose change, identification, and an emptied rucksack to carry it all.

_Nice._

Hand over hand, over chest, features blank or burned, they're like totems. Regret, Sorrow, Defeat. Morality and ethics should keep even in terrible circumstances, you'd think. You'll realize soon enough that survival is a state of mind and ethics and morals, they’re just guidelines, suggestions. They're rose coloured. What you'll allow yourself to get away with... that's the true challenge. His duty, the damned mission, they've been a yardstick, a morality metre. How he dealt with hostiles, tough decisions, it was all preconceived, training, autopilot, hope.

He takes a moment to examine (what’s left of) their faces in turn. 

_Just a dead soldier._

A weakness admitted, he's not sure how to deal with this.

The blazing chopper lost its match with the relentless elemental flurry long before Zack takes care of the boys. A fried frame is all that stands to show now. He inspects the sooted and still-hot wreckage, finding the remains of the pilot and three other cadets inside. Two cadets are missing. They could have been lost at sea, thrown over the cliff as they struck, or they could be wandering close by. He doesn’t know, but the thought is unnerving.

"Time t-to go." He tries for confident leader but gets a stutter instead.

Cloud rolls his head up at his arrival, his weary one-eyed gaze uneven. "Home?" he rasps.

The kid's face is bruising and swelling, bleeding underneath the skin, ruined optical excess oozing down a formerly perfect cheek. It's running to the corner of his mouth, off his chin, red and thick, just traces. It globs but cannot dry, the air too damn damp.

He can't leave him like this.

“Soon,” Zack answers him, and shrugs off his tundra grade jacket to tear the sleeve clean from the thermal shirt he’s sporting underneath. This fabric funnel he makes into two strips, a pseudo sash. He stretches one taut, using it to cover Cloud's damaged eye socket. He gets little resistance or reaction as he pulls it tight enough to stay, knotting it off behind his head. He does no mussing of the wound just yet. He’ll figure that out later.

"There," he says. He replaces his jacket and turns to crouch, offering a lift up onto his back.

Wrapping his arms around his neck from behind, Cloud holds on with all he has left, pressing his frozen lips and nose to the back of Zack’s naked neck. One of the few times Zack’s hair isn't long enough to swaddle a small child in and it has to be now.

Shinra proposed this rule not long ago, see. This new rule about, quote, _excessively long hair_ , unquote. Something to do with mobility and professionalism and this other crap the Director tried to get him to listen to. This didn't apply to all parties, of course. Like those starting with the letter S, in particular.

With a comply or suspend policy, Zack had little choice but to chop his long locks. So he did. There are more and more aspects of Shinra that are really starting to tick him off. He would still be lamenting that loss too, but a warm breath from Cloud sends a nuclear wave straight to his guts. Now he's praising it.

Following the ridge, they head away from the crash. If there had been more of the bird left after the fire burned out he might have held up there, but there’s no such luck. It's open on either side and skeletal. They plod along, the soft powder uneven and difficult to navigate. Zack counts paces, one by two by three. He's up to monotony in no time.

The ridge remains constant, no indents or hidey holes to be seen. He soon stops for a break. Less for himself and more for his passenger. Slight and young (just _how_ young he doesn't yet know), Cloud weighs nothing at all. He's burning up all the same. Nothing so small should radiate heat bonfire strong like he is. Got to be feverish.

Just another stimulator for Zack's impending aneurysm. Just another thing trying to pull him under the waves. He could be drowning, instead he treads and fights further.

"How ya doin'?” He has to half yell it to get over the wind scream.

Warmth slithers close to his ear.

"Cold and tired." Still yelled back, but hollow and soft. Until… "I gotta piss."

Zack kneels to let him down. "You could have said something."

"I didn't think it mattered," Cloud admits, licking his snow chapped lips.

He sways as he stands on his own.

Zack can't help but reach out to steady him. "It does matter."

Cloud leans away, blue eye serious. "I'm fine."

A towering grey plume marks their distance from the crash sight. It's intermittent against the indecisive and shifting albino veil. While Cloud takes care of his business Zack turns his back to scan their present stage. A radial assessment. Old habits and conditioning and just plain common sense.

Over to our left we have stinging white in absolute night. To our right we have cracked grey rock wall. If you look directly in front of us… we have vast dead space. There are no landmarks but the ladder of fading smoke. Wait though. As he looks again, squinting, towards that trail, something is becoming clear.

"What the..." It's not much of a warning. His sword in hand speaks louder.

There's an addition to the otherwise sterile picture beyond. A heavier blackness.

"What is it?" Cloud asks. He's come up behind him.

"Can you walk?"

"Yes..."

"Get going," Zack suggests. He takes a step forward.

"Wait," Cloud tries.

It's this hesitation that Zack, as a unit, has learned will get you in the most trouble. The nothingness becomes an outline, becomes a creature, something probably stirred up by the shit storm of their crashing earlier. Long snouted, four legged, it sniffs at the air. An oil black tongue lolls and licks.

Zack eyes it, keen to find his cue for attack or defense. Maybe it's hissing, maybe it's growling, an evil and liquid sound (as wracking as the cold), but he can't hear over the snowy tumult and wind whip at this distance.

There's a moment then, stretching intimately between the seconds, long enough to need an intermission, a full feature length, but it's ultimately anticlimactic. The creature tosses its head and turns, going back through the black out and leaving them be.

The breath is collective.

"Hah," Zack huffs, an almost laugh. It's enough of a sign to tell him there's a way off this orphaned plateau. There's a passage to central land. "Good news," he starts.

Cloud doesn't only sway this time, he heads to the ground, crumpling like a paper doll.

Zack isn't fast enough to catch him.

 

 

He does find a cave (see also: alcove). Truth be told, it's barely enough to wedge even Cloud inside. Their feet flirt with the elements. That's miles better than putting out on the first date though, isn’t it?

He’s propped Cloud against the innermost wall, slow and easy, avoiding any more stress or damage. His broadsword he stands upright next to him. Limp, cold, out cold. It's time to start full on worrying again. When he thinks about it though, leaning into the opposite corner, and Cloud, it's the perfect chance to clean him up. The best opportunity he'll get not to cause undue pain and (more) aversion. There goes his remaining thermal sleeve.

He peels back the strip over Cloud's mess of a mug, and stops. Where to start? There's nothing left of the eye that he can tell, nothing to dance around or remove (thank that good karma). It’s an ugly mess regardless. It’s a gaping hole. He dabs at the blood where it’s caked, and where the skin has torn. He wipes down his cheek and his chin and his throat. The fabric is soaked before long. He ties him back up when he’s done. It eases his mind little.

All things considered, it's about time for his break. He's been needing a cigarette since he came to, if he wanted to be honest, and usually he does. It's not a habit he's proud of, hey. He tries to do it as little as possible, as quietly as possible, but moments like these were manufactured for him. He doesn’t like booze. He doesn’t take pills. He likes smoke.

His pack is crushed and soggy at the edges, but the cigarettes inside are still dry and smokable. He always has those and his metal butane lighter on him. The heady whiff of tobacco smoke, the slow and easy drag semi-warm in his lungs... It always gets him. He leans his head back and closes his eyes, taking a puff, and another.

The cold stings on, distant enough.

 

 

Zack jerks forward.

He'd fallen asleep.

_Fantastic._

The simple habit of checking his cell phone reminds him that he has no idea how long they've been stranded. He hadn’t checked it as soon as they crashed to get a comparison. Time is solid here either way, and down right immovable. The fact that he has no signal, no way to reach someone (say, Kunsel, or even the Director), is another compelling side note.

It's somewhat lighter in the blistering ice patterns out there, and the wind seems to be down, but he still doesn’t know their total duration. He can maybe see twice as far as he could the night before. That doesn't mean much, but it does improve his overall devastated morale. The concept of comprehensive sight and ample response time is too much to ask for. He can go on and dream. He'll not crack, whither and worry. Just yet.

He looks to Cloud. That furnace-like heat pouring off of him earlier has remained. He's shivering regardless, chest heaving, sweat beading over his upper lip. Red has soaked through the fresh white strip covering his eye, the pattern like a flower bloom. His lips are blue and pulled tight over chattering teeth. Those lips were as red in unison with that stained bandage hours ago.

"Cloud?"

All Zack has to do is lean. His arm twitches, starting to lift and reach.

" _Don't touch me_ ," Cloud bursts out. He quickly grips the sides of his head. "Fuck, it hurts, _it hurts_."

"Shit," Zack swears. He crowds in, set to investigate.

A shiver and a moan, but no answer.

_You're a moron._

Zack bites his tongue.

He should have been there, should have been, should have been, shit. Fucking idiot. This is what he had been afraid of earlier. The kid couldn't have been worse off, freezing and bearing the full weight of his injury for Shinra knows how long. You can't afford to be careless in situations such as these. You can't turn your back or dim for a moment. He knows all of this, and yet he still dozed off while entertaining his vice.

He doesn't wait for Cloud to break his silence, instinct gives him a bear hug. His arms go around him fully, and then some. If hearing him protest and whimper, rather than agonizing and suffering, means invading his space, Zack’s all for it. He'll ramp up Cloud’s body heat, talk him down, make it better. He has to. He’s going to. He might not have a sleeping bag but he does have a jacket twice the size of the boy. Skin-on-skin is truly their best option.

He starts with his gloves. He has to release Cloud to remove his own jacket, but there's nowhere for him to go. While he whimpers and whines and writhes and wishes for an end, Zack has to get inside his layers. The dark blue turtleneck (for a 3rd Class), his thermal undershirt (now sleeveless). And now he has to get into Cloud’s.

"... _shoot me, shoot me, please_..." Cloud whines.

Oh, how lucky he'd have been to get protesting and whimpering.

The delirium sustains as he unzips Cloud's insulated jacket, pulling at each sleeve cuff, shaking each arm out. It's unceremonious but it gets the job done. Zack's sure there would be tears, every gasp hitched, every half-word croaked and constricted, but Cloud doesn't seem capable. That alone is tearing him to ribbons. He doesn't really know how good of an idea getting them both half stripped is, given the state of the non-shelter, but any attempt counts for something.

"... _please_..." Miserable, exhausted. It's pathetic. It's terrible.

The seconds are desperate pleas to Zack’s ear, hot spikes to his guts, but Cloud’s losing steam.

"Take it easy. I've gotta—"

"Don't!" Cloud howls.

Or so Zack thought.

Cloud surges up and knocks Zack in the bridge of the nose with his forehead. Zack blinks the compulsory tears away. He manages to get Cloud clear of his jacket and pulls him close, limp and whimpering and all. He's the bad guy here, the fucking monster. As a mechanism to get by, he constructs a credo and starts playing it on repeat.

_It's for his own good, his own good, his own..._

Cloud squirms, pushing himself away and up the opposing alcove wall. Zack works on his thermal undershirt meanwhile, that movement complicating his numb digits. He finally just bars him, fed up, arm crossing Cloud’s chest, and pulls both garments, undershirt and infantry colours, clean over Cloud’s spiky head. He's as white as the snow abound underneath the layers. He’s pale as sheer ice. Bruises track up his ribs, but the skin is unbroken.

Gathering him in an arm, Zack tosses his doubly large (and doubly insulated) jacket over his own shoulders. He pushes his arms through the sleeves and reinstates their embrace, folding Cloud snug inside. His untouched cheek hovers above Zack's collarbone. He's still resisting, still refusing to give up the ghost. This drives home a revelation. This is something Zack's thought about before. Under different circumstances, of course, but it was all about how Cloud would sound saying his name, and how he would feel, and how he would smell, pressed bare to his chest. As it stands, it’s quite a lot less reverent than Zack hoped for.

"You're okay," he soothes.

He's getting warmer. Zack can feel the spread and his heartbeat as his chest expands between them. Slower and slower it rises, nearly at sync with his own. It could be the pain (the insane pain) subsiding, or his body giving out again, but he’s calming. Muscles relax, shoulders deflate, breathing sedate. His battery's charge appears to have given out. Zack pulls him into his lap, closing the small gap there.

"Take it easy," he whispers. Useless statements. "You'll be fine." Wild hypotheticals.

Cloud's response is a chesty, inaudible thing. A sigh.

"You're fine," Zack urges, "just relax."

"I'm sorry," Cloud whispers, small, disarming, and what should be Zack's apology.

Zack grimaces. "Don't be, it's not your fault. Just hang in there, pal." He pauses, adding. "I fucked up. I fell asleep. Getting too old for this." It all sounds dry.

They're stationary there for a time, locked together, bare chest to bare chest. Cloud has no idea the position that he's in, legs bordering Zack's hips, not an inch between them. It's a mockery of more quiet, uninterrupted thoughts, playthroughs and desires. Zack’s sudden and secret fantasies. Not so bad off he might have to flesh out reminders of their situation, no. He's not at the end of his rope, but it's been fraying, if you hadn't noticed.

"You gonna be able to move?" he asks at length.

Cloud gives him a nod, warm and sane (for the moment). His state could fluctuate.

They bundle back up separately and Zack pulls him to his feet. Not a word goes between them and they travel until food rears as the next inevitable worry. They still haven't found sustainable shelter. He’s certain this is the right way to head though.

He manages to keep Cloud sane and moving and awake (plenty of scary points, yes, where he would waver and moan and drag on, but those are smoothed out), so there's something. His already ragged optimism is just taking more hits. More of that long term worry he can't shake.

If they don't find a way through this static border, he can kiss all theories of saving Cloud goodbye. He can kiss 1st Class goodbye. As if he'd forgotten. Good things come to those who wait, and patience is a virtue. Or so his mother would say.

As he's looking ahead, same as he has for hours only minutes—mind bent on steaming soup and molten coffee and bed sheets—he sees it. And it is a glimmering light distant through the bleak, white curtain. By some earth-splitting tectonic action there has formed a rift in the mountain’s crust. It looks wide enough to slide through. That glimmering is coming from the other side.

This is pure and stupid elation.

He sends Cloud through first and takes up the rear. The fit scrapes and catches Zack’s elbows, gnaws and drags at his hips, but he makes it to the other side. Cloud's going was somewhat smoother. It deposits them both into a wide clearing, a mirror of their previous stage: open, blank and bare. One thing stands different out there, and it’s a warehouse. Two levels of metal panels, no windows, and high hanging flood lamps. It’s an actual building.

This is pure, stupid relief.

"What now?" Cloud asks.

And that's just the five million gil question now, isn't it?

"We go inside," Zack answers.


	4. Chapter 4

_Northern Continent - location unknown (approx. ten hours after crash)_

They're not that far off. It’s maybe thirty meters, bearing straight and sure from the ridge and the clearing, towards the building and salvation. Flurries, like steam curling off a hot spring, dance and skim over the smooth plain of snow between. It's destitution. Nothing appears unusual yet, which is even better. Or worse. There are no vehicles, or road, not the whiff of fire, or minimal signs of life. Like, say, a stray print (animal or human alike) in the forever white.

The split in the mountain must have been used as easy access to the ocean on the far side. Maybe for an escape route or supply line in another time. As they tread closer, closing the gap, no one’s here now. Not a rumour or suggestion. Whomever had occupied this place before must have cleared out, or been cleared out. They left the lights on for ‘em though. A few more feet, just a few more steps, and they're golden.

It's Cloud who speaks up. "Zack, I gotta tell you something."

Always too damn good to be true.

He's a good distance behind, voice just a distortion late coming. Zack waits for him but his eyes never divert from that structure north. Wind and snow and stinging cold, the pull and the drag and the weight of this task. He's so ready to be done, to be successful, and call it a night.

The direction of the oncoming gust changes, drifting up from the warehouse, instead of blustering over their backs. It sweeps across his chest, rifles the hair hanging over his forehead. Something in the atmosphere has gone stale, odd, and heavier in a way, even if it was never good to begin with. Those flood lights flicker, blink and wink. It's a beckon, a tease, a calling. 

Cloud moves up, but stays well behind, just outside of Zack's reach. "They're coming for you," he says.

Zack turns now. "What?" He has to correct and tilt down to look the cadet in the face. Makeshift bandage aside, pouty but blue lips aside, he can see the fear and trepidation there. Okay, he's listening, he's fully invested. Let’s have it.

"Shinra."

"Yeah, I know. But, I hate to say it," Zack says, scratching the back of his head, looking over their situation, "I don't think it'll be soon. They won't catch wind of this for a while. We're pretty much stuck out here until they really miss us. Bullshit protocol and no radio."

He glances over his shoulder, back to the shelter. They're in sight of the two sliding steel doors and stopped dead out in the open. The lamp craned overhead buzzes. If they haven't been detected by whatever might be lurking nearby, there isn't anything nearby.

All these compiled signs are still making him anxious to get inside. There could be a radio in there, a fleet of crates branded with Shinra's logo, filled with commodities the likes of which he can't even fathom. Maybe food, maybe bullets, maybe materia, or imported goods. They could find cots and blankets and running water and maybe, if he's lucky, if he's really damn lucky, an armchair to kick back in. He could have himself a rest and a long, slow puff.

So close.

"No. This mission... It's..."

"What, Cloud?" He’s liking this less and less. His palms sweat and itch inside his gloves.

"I didn't know anything about you, see." The blond's voice grows higher. "You were just a name, honestly. We were briefed an hour before we left, before you even arrived. They took us all, even the damn pilot, into a room and said... that you were unstable, wild. You had to be— I didn't know, Zack," he moans. "They..." A quick swallow. "Shinra wants you dead."

A blink, a furrow of the brow. Zack stands and soaks it in.

Cloud has more for him though. "They put this assignment together in order to take you out, I guess. He told us you were a traitor, giving intel to the Wutai. We were supposed to lead you into a point, a warehouse. The crash wasn't part of it, something went wrong." He gestures to the quiet, singular building, more the villain now than any kind of saviour. "You can't go in there."

This is hardly good news. Things were tight enough as it is.

"Okay, okay," Zack waves his hands. "Who briefed you?"

He knew it was coming but he has to be sure.

"It was Sephiroth."

Ya sleep with a guy a few times and then he wants to kill you.

 

 

_Midgar - SOLDIER Executive levels (six weeks prior)_

Just like with a moth to light, Zack's always been drawn to the pretty ones, the bright ones, the colourful ones, the glimmer and change and challenge. And, this one is certainly that, to say the least. All the right aspects, all the right attitude. He’s curving and sharp, defined architecture. Sephiroth is like a fine painting, or no, he's got it now—a fine statue, made of marble and blood and sweat and tears and pale, dead, unmoving discipline. He's liquid fire, blue (green) flame. He’s like the twisting and burning in your gut after a good run, or a breath held too long and then released. Or, better still, the twisting and burning after a good punch.

Zack's not a playboy. He wouldn't sleep with you to sleep with you. There's no running tally here. You have to give him something honest in return, and it needs to be appealing enough on a level not many people would think he entertained. He might be a dope quick to fall in love, and as contained as a hurricane, but he's there for the cerebral connection, the personality, the compatibility. The sex is a nice bonus. But, too nice to last.

When you hear so much about a person from rumours, from horror stories, from hero stories, half-caught conversations, whispers, and your own perceptions, it's hard not to think you know them even before you've met. Whether he was worth even giving a shot never touched Zack's mind. He followed a simple rule when it came down to following an attraction: don't listen to doubt. His bull-headed determination paid off in war, why not love?

"An honour to finally meet you." He puts his hand out. He doesn't know if he should have called him sir, or General, or maybe saluted him first. He looks to the Director, who’s sucking on his teeth, grim and apathetic as usual.

Sephiroth sees Zack’s open hand, fingers wrapped in cracked and peeling brown gloves (Shinra issue pieces of crap—goes through a pair a week), and doesn't move to accept it.

The silence is bone crushing.

"Um..." Zack moves the hand away, balling it into a fist at the small of his spine. The split leather creaks and protests. Those dazzling jade eyes, reptilian, feline, startling, they’re making his stomach drop to join his heart.

Sephiroth's eventual response is a noise, a vibration deep in his throat. "Hmm."

It's enough to drive Zack crazy.

 

 

_Northern Continent - location unknown_

He grabs Cloud by the shoulders and walks him, beyond his desire (and maybe his better judgment), back to the ridge, close enough to blend in and not be seen. He's still so damn warm through his thick layers and Zack's gloves. That small and pale face of his is flushed and framed with disheveled hair. It's damp, clinging and depressed over the crown of his skull where Zack's bandage stretches. Spiky wedges come low over his equally golden yellow eyebrow. That negated left eye is blocked out, red on white.

 _But he's still beautiful_. It's a quick half-thought, impossible to censor.

He tosses his head, slush flying free. "So what's in there then?"

"I don't know," Cloud answers.

"Right... You're just the decoy."

Cloud frowns, diverting eye contact.

"Is there anything else out here—buildings, settlements?"

"I don't know..." Cloud shakes his head.

"Are you supposed to give a signal or something? A bird call? Or do I just pop in?"

"I don't know!"

Zack chews his lip, hands still on the boy's shoulders. Despite the obvious concerns, he's got to go in. He’s going to go in. And maybe there’s a firing squad waiting, or the whole thing is rigged to blow as soon as that door slides open, but this isn't the time to be timid or coy. He's never believed in playing it safe anyway, right? He believes in getting the job done and doing the proper thing, no matter the trouble, above all else, including self preservation.

"Stay here," he orders. He lifts his hands off the kid, connection lost (wishing very much that _out of sight, out of mind_ would apply here), and turns to head for the warehouse.

"What, no!" Cloud shouts. He’s got him by the jacket sleeve, but he's being pulled along with him, not nearly strong enough to hold him back. His boot heels kick up hillocks of snow. "You can't go in there. Didn't you hear me?"

"This is _me_ we're talking about," Zack confirms, grinning, full and bright and fake as hell.

"I didn't know what to think before… about what they said about you,” Cloud says. “Everyone else was angry, fired up, and wanted a piece. He said terrible things about you. I thought you'd do something… something..." Cloud sounds ashamed. "When I was... screaming..."

Zack halts.

Sephiroth had assured them he was rouge, wild, a spy. Crazy with mako poisoning, strong as an ox. Cloud's only rational thought was that he would hurt him, kill him, or worse. No wonder he'd been freaking out, screaming, telling him, _please, oh please, just shoot me_. Fuck. Compounded with the sudden crash, his injury, Zack's decidedly weird behaviour from before—he can’t blame him.

"But, you ended up saving my life," Cloud explains.

_No, I haven't._

"Look," Zack starts. He has a despairing amount of trouble pulling away from his weak grip. "We can't stay out here. There's nothing out here. Not a damn thing but ice and more ice and spooky animals. We know that much. If we do," he prods Cloud in the chest, "we're dead of exposure or ambush, and that's an absolutely. There’s shelter."

"If you go in—"

"Do you know that for certain?"

Cloud closes his mouth.

"I'm going to look," Zack finalizes.

Cloud opens it right back up again.

 

 

_Midgar - SOLDIER dorms (four weeks prior)_

It turns out to all be hero worship.

This isn't the first nor the last time they're alone together like this, just the two of them, shoulder to shoulder, a room and a bed at their disposal. The proximity can't be denied, no, but they're miles apart. Zack's blinking up at the ceiling, his bare chest rising and falling, eyelashes fluttering, snapping like camera flashes.

"What are you thinking?" It's out of character.

Zack looks over.

Sephiroth's incandescent eyes blaze back.

"Nothing," he answers.

He's been his shadow for the last two or three weeks, following him into hell's backyard and back out again. Missions and assignments and orders tailored for the aspiring 1st Class that he is. There truly wasn't a moment to think of anything else. How he was going to get a fresh pack of smokes for tomorrow, and how he was going to skip out so he could send money or a note to his parents about his progress, and how he was going to avoid Kunsel (and any other familiar face) because Sephiroth is jealous and his smile sharp as a sickle… That’s his reality now.

The surrounding air smells of their encounter: musky and humid.

"I'll have you and your family terminated if you tell anyone about this."

It's said in such a way, with such a clinical coolness and ease, that Zack knows it to be fact.

_Terminated._

He'll never forget that.

 

 

_Northern Continent - location unknown_

"You can't. I won't let you," Cloud protests.

"Like to see you try," Zack scoffs.

"I'm feeling better," Cloud tries. "An hour ago, after you left to check the area, I took an Ether, or Elixir, or whatever. Can’t remember the difference. It was from one of the med kits. I can help you. I've been trained. You won’t believe anyone’s in there, but you won’t let me go with you."

The med kits. He'd forgotten about those, hadn't he? Classy. At least that explains why Cloud’s been so talkative and alert. And maybe why he calmed so easily the night before.

"If it was in the med kit it was probably an Elixir... Besides, that's not a good enough reason. You're running on empty. You'll just hold me back. And you're—"

It didn't feel right to finish. It felt like he was inching into a scary place and admitting something for real. It had sounded something like _too important_ either way, but that expression pointed back at him, resigned and firm, could almost be a knowing one. He won't allow Cloud to be put into any more danger. Period. End of story. Not an option. Spin on.

"I'm done discussing this."

"Wait, no! Listen to me!"

"Stay there."

"You can't leave me, asshole. I don't have a weapon! What if that creature comes back?"

The twinge of a headache wanting to take over and choke and blind and corrupt is almost to the limits of what it takes to change Zack’s stubborn tune. He's not thrilled, and usually much more difficult than this, but his shoulders drop and his arms hang all the same. He's torn. Because he's right. He can't leave him. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

"Fine," he hisses.

He gives him the recovered rifle from the chopper and every clip of ammo he can find on his person and from the rucksack. That's about ninety rounds plus. That might seem like a lot, ninety (hell, it’s almost a hundred), but if Cloud can't shoot because of his disability (or lack of skill) there’s a drop in accuracy that could get one, or both of them, killed. No accounting for Shinra’s numbers, or weapons, or tactics either.

They're not in good shape.

"Now, listen. When we get to the door..." Zack has his broad sword in hand, nerves on hold but humming and thrumming and not to be forgotten. He’s never more present than before a clash. At least that’s the same. "...be ready to fire. Split second. Short, controlled bursts."

"Okay," Cloud confirms and takes a breath. He pops the safety off the rifle, his trigger finger he rests against the trigger guard, ready.

With no helmets, no supplies, three eyes, little armour, every step deliberate and slow, they approach. The naked entrance bulb glares on, outlining the fall of the snow in contrasting relief. It’s specks of falling cotton or a swarm of albino insects.

Once in front of the doors, they wait for a beat. Zack drops the rucksack at his feet. He looks to Cloud, Cloud looks back, the two separated by the two doors between, lit by the one bulb above. They nod, and Zack gets his hand on the metal handle. His sword is on standby in his right hand, business end down. Cloud opposes him, trigger finger ready to squeeze.

Zack braces and gives a great tug on the door. It slides easily enough, but the sound echoes back through the insides of the warehouse and the enclosed valley. A greater noise follows, drilling down any hungry silence that might have been.

The rifle discharge kicks the muzzle of the rifle up in Cloud's hands. He lets off several rounds and then steps to the side, pressing against the warehouse's corrugated steel skin.

"What did you see?" Zack whispers, on high alert.

"Just boxes, I think," Cloud admits, sheepish.

"No hordes of murderous soldiers?"

"No."

They wait.

"Alright," Zack says. From his busted pack he shakes out a cigarette and pops it into his mouth, right on his waiting lips. It seemed like the proper reaction. The click and snap of his butane lighter draws Cloud's attention.

He watches from the far side of the threshold, the wind switching up again, dragging a great breath over his back. It shuffles Cloud's ice-clotted hair and comes to greet Zack's face. The flame, just ready to lick the end of his cigarette, blows out. Distant voices carry with it.

 

 

_Midgar - SOLDIER dorms (two weeks prior)_

That childlike wonder, that adoration, it crumbles down. He's neutered of the need for that role model, that idol, in such a short time. Zack never felt closer to a nervous breakdown in his life. What he is to Sephiroth on an emotional level you could find in a dog, a cat, a parakeet. He’s just something to follow the rules, not speak up until spoken to, and submit.

It was never nonconsensual, the sex. Not exactly. He never said no, or chickened out, not once. But, he also firmly believed that if he did, pulling away or wincing in the wrong place, or booking it down the corridor, that his parents wouldn't be there to accept his note or money when he did manage to find the time (and the gumption).

More than just stiff and jagged, Sephiroth was a paranoid. He carried an underlying edge to him, a psychosis. He soaked in it, wore it like a cloak. His stability inside the sanctuary of his room was nonexistent; his self control little. It only grew worse the longer Zack worked with him.

As the days dragged out, his chin held high, arms at his sides, proper, he felt more like an abused caretaker or pupil than anything else. Sephiroth would come back for a glimpse, after being gone for weeks, and Zack would be there waiting, just a gimmick, just a blank face, dying to run. It was part of his job, his detail, his aspirations of greatness.

He begs (oh yes, he does), despite his pride and shame, for a reassignment. The Director's knowing grin hits him like a kick in the teeth. If anyone’s going to know about their relations and tension, it’s him. Safe and comfy behind his desk, the Director doesn’t know the half of it. His imagination wouldn’t do it justice either. Zack’s certainly didn’t.

The reality. His parents _terminated_. It’s not worth it. Not for all the tea in Wutai, or any accolades, admiration and smiling faces that would follow. Who would he want to tell if they weren’t together anymore? Who would believe him anyway? All he can do is try to move on.

How foolish it was to think Sephiroth would too.

 

 

_Northern Continent - location unknown_

As he's bringing the lighter back up for a second time, he stops, he listens. The cigarette lights regardless. He puffs out a grey plume subconsciously. The grey is whisked away, along with the flame. Voices. A confusion of them. The over-dry smell hangs.

"I can't see from here, but I know someone's in there," Cloud whispers.

"I'll take a look," Zack says, and edges around the corner. Easy as that.

He sees several lines of nondescript crates, munition boxes, and mechanical equipment stacked on pallets. They block a good portion of the view into the warehouse’s guts. There's a path around them on either side, but it's tight. Forklifts and work benches crowd the walls where he can see in. A metal rail staircase runs up to a landing, probably to follow the circumference of the warehouse walls and pass over the double door entrance.

The glance might have been brief and guarded, but a gunshot rings out as he’s leaning back. A crack shot. It zings a muscle twitch away from the side of his face. Sudden heat, a split in the air. The cigarette is torn from his lips, caught by the bullet. He jerks back, boot heel slicking off the wet rubber gasket lining the door's seam.

Cloud's lone eye is wide.

"I think they saw me." Zack licks his lips and lifts his sword.

Frantic yelled commands now pick up from inside. That, and footsteps. A smoke bomb goes off, the spewed gasses hiss and billow inside.

He's as ready as he'll ever be for this thing. If this is going to be his end, if there's really no way out of this, he might as well make it such an end, right? Go down in a blaze of glory. Become a fable. A bedtime story for their kids. Hey, the world goes on, man.

Red laser sights thread out from the smoke screen, all pointed at an angle, pointed where they last saw Zack. He can't begin to count them. They gleam in the smoke and distort in the blustering snow, flashing on, flashing off, roving and whirling. They grow stronger. The troops are moving closer, edging around that blank space in the crates and boxes and junk. They're focused, getting in position. The sudden silence unsettles. No more messages are yelled out. No threats or bargains. They really just want to kill him.

 _What they don't know though_ …

Zack lowers his sword and grabs for the scavenged grenade (it's no damn smoke bomb either). His conspiratory signal reaches Cloud. He nods curtly and steps back.

Taking the grenade in hand, Zack pops the pin out, and counts to three, letting it cook. He’ll have to lob it hard enough to ricochet off the far wall, around the pallets, and to where he’s pretty sure the soldiers have set up. Easy enough.

It's a quick toss. They don't have to wait long for the outcome. The explosion rattles the thin walls, their jaws, the snow pile on the roof above. It comes down in a shelf, just missing their shoulders. Zack charges in immediately after, soldier kicking in.

He rounds that blind corner, and the boxes, and slashes at the first hazy outline, lunging for the next. The area beyond the stacked junk is clear and open, a perfect stage for an imperfect end. He shuts off and doesn't think if he knows the soldiers he’s cutting down. Doesn’t register if he knows their names, has led them, given them advice; heard of their troubles, family histories, personal desires.

_They're trying to kill you._

Cloud soon follows, opening up that rifle into the chests of three advancing troopers.

_They’re just doing their job._

The smoke inside is heavy but clearing. Zack takes down two more soldiers, but the third he body checks into a wooden crate. He slices into the throat of another, fluid, a wide arcing swing, arm at full span. The spray of red that follows slaps across Cloud's arm, speckles his hair and his throat. Zack hopes the warmth is some kind of relief in the chill.

The grenade blast spread out the troops, but there are still so many of them. Bullets whiz and pop, metal clangs, boots shuffle and shift. He catches one trooper from behind. There’s another soon after. The next almost gets a clean shot off at him, but he chops the hand holding the pistol clean from the guy’s wrist. The scream, the bellow. He can block that out, but he can't dodge the graze of someone’s lucky aim as it stings into his side, chewing deep. The bite throbs in tandem with his pulse, his movements, his dance. He grits his teeth and punches out the closest trooper, venting some frustration. Helmet notwithstanding, the soldier goes sprawling.

He hears a cry from Cloud then, like a spark charging the air, and he can't help but look over. Pinned behind a crate, ducked down, he's not firing a shot. It could be fear, doubt, a raw nerve.

"I'm out!" Cloud shouts.

_Oh, shit._

Zack's knocked back, like the kick from a fucking horse, and goes flying. His head connects with the poured concrete floor, crack, and all the sound is suddenly, thankfully, turned down. Too hard-headed for that to shut him down though.

He’s covered a good distance, sliding on his back. He can still see and feel and damn his side burns, so that's good, but he also lost grip on his sword. He feels for it now, working through dreamscape. There's the tang of copper on his tongue, a dulled rush in his ears. He's finding he's blinking rapidly, trying to settle his frosted vision. Not much can put Zack Fair on his ass.

"Kudos," he wheezes.

He looks up to have a sword halted just as it was making to create a place in his forehead. The blade has been caught on a double, a twin, his blade, held in the trembling hands of Cloud, the shivering cadet. This small-statured thing, he swings the two blades up and pushes the trooper back, knocking him off balance. He skewers him in the middle as he falters.

"They have a machine," his deliverer, Cloud, informs, voice clear but urgent.

As if on a cue, introduction complete, a mechanical hum and a clang and whir arrests the air. It's muscling out the fewer and fewer gun shots, the weaker and weaker yells, for ultimate supremacy.

"A _machine_?" Zack huffs, standing. They scurry to huddle behind a group of forklifts and crates. They should be overrun soon. They should be getting crushed or blown up.

"Yeah,” Cloud answers, breathless. “Flung you across the room."

_So, that's what that was…_

Zack stretches and cracks his spine and neck, listening to the growing commotion and confusion around them. The air's just a thin wisp of white now, the smoke dissipated. A corpse lies to their right, fresh slash wounds steaming in the air. 

Zack looks at this and does a double take. He reaches over, grabbing for the orphaned gun and ammo left slung on the body like a bandoleer. Petting the body down further his fingers drag across something that makes him grin a real grin this time.

"You seem to be better with that sword than the gun, so I'll use these.” He loads and locks the new machine gun and flashes the two found materia. They’re both tree green, for nature, life, victory, and warm to the touch. It’s a good start, but they'll need to know what they are before celebrating and attacking.

"Give me one at least," Cloud insists, offering a hand.

Zack sighs. "Needy, aren't we?" But, he hands over a billiard ball sized orb.

"Fried out robots. Great, big fireballs. This'll be fun," Zack says.

Cloud looks unamused. "If you call this fun..."

"And you wanted to join Shinra?"

They're interrupted by that steady whirring and clang.

"Here goes nothin'," Zack says and equips the materia. It melts through his jacket sleeve to assimilate into forearm.

Here’s a sensation you won't soon get used to: the invasion, the alien thoughts. Calm as they might be, they’ll still throw you for a loop. Incomplete and dizzying and vague, they ramble and urge and remark. What's your memory and what's not, it’s a toss up. The concentration, or level, of the materia amplifies these effects too. The more sensitive you are, the lower concentration you start with. Some have no tolerance at all. He’s not one of those types. He's SOLDIER 3rd class. He takes mako showers in the morning and eats materia for lunch. Not really, but still.

It takes him a moment to level out the whispering, breathy voices, frantic and frenzied. They’re not forceful but they’re constant and secret and knowing. He doesn’t fight them. His face is vacant, and then he chimes, "It's lightning."

Blind faith, as it were, still has its hold on Zack.

They both look over their cover. The machine is barely tall enough to fit inside the confines of the warehouse. The ceiling goes up enough to accommodate an airship, but the machine itself still has to crouch and scrape along to function.

Skin armour-plated and sealed in matte red paint. Robotic arms swing. Vice-like clamps open and close at the ends. The torso is humanoid, its legs spindly and many, spider-esque. Shoulder-mounted turrets move independently from the unit itself. Laser sights _pan pan pan_. It’s loaded with not just bullets, but missiles too. Its head, above all this, is just a bundle of antennae and strobe-like sensors, and a single camera eye. A numeric black eight and the Shinra motif has been stenciled on its shoulder and breast plate.

_Eight won't be your lucky number._


	5. Chapter 5

_Northern Continent - Warehouse (approx. eleven hours after crash)_

He's hopeless.

He'll only admit to that once, so hold it dear.

He can stay as positive and smiley and chipper, to the point of annoyance, to the sheer edge of insanity, all he wants, but he can't, and he won't, lie to Cloud.

His face is undoubtedly (it's greasy wet) smeared with blood and soot and the dying good hope of the day. His uniform is drenched from the melted snow carried on his shoulders, frosted on his arms, and trapped in the spikes of his hair. His overall demeanor is sobered and pointed, but the stubborn twitch of a smile burns his cheeks all the same.

Despite their run of bad luck (yes, that's what he's daring to call it, even if luck has little to do with it), despite the bad news (and the spear in his side, the fatigue, the shortness of breath, the aching bones and dizzy head and dread), he's still who he is.

You can't keep a good Zack down, and he's proved that over and over again just as he's proving it now. He'll be the one to give Death a great big smile at the end, rather than not. It won’t be so much out of egotism, or even courage, but because he knows he can. Eager, defiant to a fault.

This smile here isn't a lie, and the aching in his jaw can attest to that. This is called _long suffering_. If you were to go under the surface tension, to the naked underbelly, you'd find he is starting to crack. It's hairline thin but sure as day. Maybe he knows this and maybe he doesn't, but he's surely, like any really good hero, doomed.

Things were simple when he only had to see about a crew (his training, their obedience) and his reputation and his honor before. That was duty, that was governing Shinra's best (and sometimes not), but this here is hardly on the same level. This is complicated.

Cloud’s his damsel in distress, so to speak.

Does he have just that much inherent good in him, or is he really just that dumb and quick to fall in love? It must be equal parts. The situations are alarmingly alike. Whether he's fighting against fellow members of Shinra, or the Wutai, or himself, it doesn't really matter. Everyone is just as disassociated and cruel as the other.

That glorious bastard (Sephiroth), that suffocating (gangrenous) infatuation with SOLDIER... It's salt on a wound. Glimmering false memories, sand sifting through his fingers. That grandiose Shinra image. He yearned for it, like a deserted man would want for drink.

To keep in tandem with what everyone back home, and in Shinra, has already said about him (the rumours, the exaggerations, the slander, the truths), he might as well entertain the delusions too and act like a SOLDIER 1st class regardless of the current situation. He can't deny that he still wants to be _he-who-shall-not-be-named_ , and to make his parents proud (and dead) and get the girl (boy)— _dammit, dammit_. He’ll make 'em proud, but why?

What’s the point?

He's been screwed.

And he's beating a dead horse.

If he could tune the inner monologue out, he would. Mind over matter, _come on_ , but this goes deeper than suggestion or fancy, or common sense. SOLDIER is still in every aspect of his make up. It's in the way he walks, talks, and comes to his conclusions. He is a product of Shinra. He is _the_ product, fueling the cycle, perpetuating the SOLDIER fantasy. He’s just a tool. He built himself around that picture, full colour and glossy and beautiful, a war time poster, an advertisement, catchy and loud and omnipresent.

The solid black letters say: SOLDIER 1st Class is...

A farce.

_Fuck._

A sham.

_That's not it._

A lie.

_Goddammit, stop._

So he's a lie.

And Cloud.

Dingy, dying and desperate.

_STOP._

He’s just as relevant.

Zack takes a deep, deep breath.

He jumps out from behind the huddle of forklifts.

Cloud's alarmed curse fades into the battle ground symphony still heavy and tense in the congested space around them.

Zack sprints all out for the machine, this No. 8, gun muzzle concentrated on its numerous, spindled legs. Shells burst from the barrel electrified, as bright as the beginning of life, materia showing in his forearm, fueling his efforts. Bullets ting and tear into plated armour. His open mouth is wide, cry of war thumping out, getting lost.

The bullets drill holes and divots, but they’re about as destructive as insect bites. He's not betting on doing a lot of outright damage with just the gun though.

He dunks and dodges the machine's answering rain of bullets, its sweeping arms, and finds a metal crate to hide behind. Rolling to the side for another crate, staying on the move, he pulls the trigger. The spray connects and sparks lively on impact, flashing blue and white, on and off.

That's what he wants.

The materia's electrical charge crawls along No. 8 like palsied fingers.

Cloud now joins in, picking off the mess of soldiers Zack hadn’t stomped out on the first assault. He’s covering Zack’s back as he focuses on the bigger problem. The troops are spreading out and disoriented, giving them both little to fear there.

Cloud is proving his training and worth. Out of the corner of his eye, on the edge of his perception, there he is. Blood sprays, metal sings, cries rise and fall, ebb and flow. He’s committed to living, far beyond reasoning.

A swinging arm crashes down on Zack’s crate. He dodges and rolls just in time. The machine scrapes and clanks, heaving and clumsy, spidery legs wanting for purchase but receiving little on the smooth floor. It whines (rrrrrr) and readjusts, spitting round after round at Zack as he appears and disappears, staying mobile. Laser sights cross and wheel.

The thing can barely move. How they even got it in here is a mystery. They might have built it as it stands, or there's an opening on the far side. Either way, here it is, bumping equipment and shelves and the lot, an easy target, but overpowered. It's too cumbersome to react as it should (trammeled like a pest) and its armour is thick.

It jerks and halts, a jet of steam escaping.

The noise resounds. Time stretches long.

Zack quickly reloads.

Cloud must be looking on.

The exuberant ammunition has disabled a leg, but the machine doesn't stay entirely immobile for long. Devoid of the emotion of fear, devoid of the physicality of fatigue, No. 8 continues its attack, making the area Zack can work with smaller and smaller, its own reach wider and wider. The struts left undamaged (there are five) manage despite, twitching along.

Chain gun turrets come alive, whirring a cyclone of lead and strife and defiance to aerate the concrete behind Zack as he retreats for more bordering crates. He retains his own attack, firing around the corner of his crate, sure and relentless. It's blind but it's unyielding, the air statically charging and violent. Lightning snaps on every report, his arm growing numb from the jolt and the heat. His head is swelling with the incessant, alien voices from the materia. They're angry as wild fire, not a discernible word or splintered thought to break through the cacophony.

Another support strut crumbles.

It's a blindingly awesome affair, but he doesn't elude the swipe that retaliates it.

_Sucker punch._

A mechanical arm shoots out from inside the flowering luminescent eclipse, first dispatching his cover and then swinging back to rocket him up and clear. He shoots across the room and collides with the pallets stacked at the doors they came in through. His spine and broad shoulders bust and splinter the wood. He falls back to ground level, boots striking first, loose and unstable ankles sending him forward. He’s sprawled out on his hands, wind gone, vision blurred, gossamer. He spits a ribbon of sticky blood. It slaps concrete, haphazard.

The machine sends two zig-zagging ribbons screaming after him.

Mini-missiles.

He can just make them out as he looks up.

He doesn't blink.

Smile.

The shells explode mid flight, wafted heat drying and scorching his face.

He winces at the flare.

Cloud's on him like that, gun in hand.

Unwilling (unable) to move just yet, Zack tugs him down to his level, another two missiles whizzing by to explode into the double doors beyond. The staircase bolted above crashes down in pieces, blocking but not shutting them in. They're shielded from the debris and the scorch for now, but they're still in one crap location. Might as well be presented garnish and all.

He throws Cloud up and towards the blown out doors. He’s following himself, moments later, bullets and metallic workings hissing and whining in dismayed revelation meanwhile. The machine reaches out for them, clamp wide, yawning, willing, wanting, but they’re too far off.

Cloud half crawls and half runs for the permanent porthole, wet boot rubber losing traction, sword and machine gun white-knuckled. Zack climbs over the remains of the landing and staircase and passes through right behind him.

The chill outside immediately arrests his lungs and stings at his eyes. Snow falls where it was quiet before, confusing the distance to the mountain rift ahead.

Close quarters might have been in their favour, sure, but fight or flight reared its ugly head and he plans on having them live for another day, even if it might be spent freezing to death.

"Are you okay?" Cloud blurts. It’s almost lost to the gust.

Zack has no chance to respond.

The machine tears through the corrugated steel, taking part of the structure's roof and support beams and paneling with it. The screech is forever long, unable to pass so easily through the cold air. The warehouse wobbles and buckles and folds in on itself as the machine breaks free, standing at full height now, towering and impossible and bigger than fear.

Snow rises in a flurry around the settling metal heap. The warehouse is demolished just like that. No more shelter or safe haven. Any units or supplies left inside are likely to be flattened.

Zack takes the gun from Cloud's heaving hands and directs it square on No. 8.

He yells, "Just run!"

His ribs sting on inhale.

Cloud listens and books it across the ice plain, back to the rift in time.

The discharge from his gun goes on in bright bouquets. Bullets ejected via combustion burst out through orange flame and electrically charge via materia. The hair on his neck stands on end, his head is light. The colour range goes red to orange to yellow to blue to white. The rounds smash and tear into Shinra manufactured armour, denting deep, sending bolts and wires free. The electrical charge might have lost its former bite though. No. 8 crashes on uninhibited.

Zack grimaces and back peddles, holding his side. It's subconscious, out of his control. Can't feel it through his glove, but he's sure it's there. The wetness and the warmth of blood.

He must have been hit.

A lucky graze that wasn't so.

His aim is sure and steady, everything you'd expect from a titled SOLDIER 3rd class, but No. 8 aggresses mindlessly, furiously, all the same. It closes the short distance, gaining ground, taking every bullet and zapping charge in heavy stride and soulless indifference. Even with its crippled legs dragging, and its weapons systems failing or spent (hasn't fired a shot since breaking free), it glides ahead, stomping in steady succession.

As it reaches Zack, one step, two step, it lunges out a skeletal arm, clear and clean as the lunge of a blade, and catches him by the throat. The robotic clamp seizes down, perilously strong. Zack drops the gun and shoots both arms up to catch it, stop it, hold it. He's lifted from his feet as he wrenches at the contraption. He can't get even a fingertip between his neck and the machinery there. No hope to yell or call out or take even the tiniest of breath. He's bereft, depleted, done, but he claws and kicks away, teeth grinding, lungs protesting.

The red eye of No. 8, the lone blaze, stares him down, telescoping lenses focusing, computing. The resonant materia voices roar on but in a muffled way, a diminishing way. As if through water, or padding, or his hands over his ears. They’re screaming where he can't.

His eyes roll up to the snow-speckled sky, dark and empty, tears streaming, jaw working.

_You can't be done._

_You're kidding yourself._

Boots struggle down to a twitch.

_You're more stubborn than this._

_By far._

Knocked free, glittering as it turns, his lightning materia drops to the bleached powder below. Burrowing a perfectly round hole in the drift it disappears. The warring, crazed voices go with it, severed like a phone line cut. His fight appears to be have come to an end. 

Begin silence.

"Zack!"

It takes a long moment, a whole disorderly thought process to finally realize he's falling.

It's another strange moment as he hits the ground, _thud_ , like a sack of potatoes, and goes up to his nose in ice pack. The robotic metal arm cloven sheer (deadly vice, elbow joint and all) comes with him and rolls off his chest.

He’s coming to in waves, air (at the last) burning his deprived lungs. His vision is a pin point, the span of a long hallway, black edges squeezing out the sky above.

Cloud's shaking the life out of him, yelling down into his face from above. There's a contradictory mellow green illuminating the edges of his silhouette. Other than that... he looks like hell, plain shagged out, all used up. There's a good bit of fresh crimson running down his cheek below his ruined eye. It's running to his chin and then dripping, _drip drip_ , quick as rain fall onto Zack's collar. There's hardly any white left on that torn up fabric around his head. Hardly any left at all. He's not so pale now as grey and blue.

A spectre.

_How long was I out?_

"...detonate, come on, get up!"

A loud whistle, steam escaping a tight space, cuts off the first portion of Cloud’s statement. 

Zack drags his numb legs in and moves to get to his feet, Cloud trying to assist.

That No. 8 contraption is a busted and broken, uncoordinated wreck behind them. It’s missing an arm and several legs, and it struggles. Gears, servos and circuits are visible underneath its less than dapper matte paint job. Oil or coolant stains the white. It’s busted to shit.

Zack sees awe inspiring. The stuff wet dreams are made of. Spiraling fireworks, crashing cymbals. Cloud's counter, just the thought of it... glorious. And he's so small and unassuming.

"It's going to self-destruct!" Cloud reiterates.

Zack staggers at his peak, gone woozy, downright stricken. His vision draws out thin again, his head a mess of white noise and his entire side, up to his spine, to the base of his skull, the back of his eyeballs, flares alive, agony. The eager stab buckles Zack’s knees under him.

This is unfiltered pain, true and choking as the vice before.

But then, he's warm.

Really warm.

He can smell sea salt, a whiff of oil. He can hear the wind crisp and clear underneath the catastrophe of the machine beeping, cycling down, and something else entirely... The whisper of a whole new set of voices and words and encouragements, distant but uncanny.

He starts to come back.

"You got a..."

_The materia._

Cloud cuts in, "Hurry!"

Beaten and broken as it is, No. 8 still attempts its attack. It reaches out a singular feeble arm, heaving itself up and then falling prostrate. It struggles and heaves, rising up and up again. The antenna crowning its deformed torso is bent, broken and useless. That red eye must now be blind. It’s about as adept as an infant.

Able to stand without falling, Zack spends no more time looking. They've got to put as much distance between them and the wreckage and the bugged out machine as possible. Who knows how far and wide the thing's packed to blow. They'll head back to where they thought they had escaped from an hour ago. How could he forget... The dismal snow blasted shelf lining the frozen coast. It'll put the mountain at their backs. No better protection.

Zack slows as they draw near. He's losing his wind, his stride wide and wobbling. He catches his dragging feet and comes to his knees. The effects of Cloud's restore materia aren't lasting. Either the damn thing's just that useless or Zack's really just that close to shut down himself. He's sure he’s just winded, shagged out. But, Cloud's near frantic, near insanity, near absolution, salvation, completion. He must have noticed the blood.

It could be worse.

Zack winces.

New voices, commanding and many, carry over No. 8's determined commotion to die as loudly, as violently, and as closely as possible. Trooper reinforcements. More commonly known as replacements in Zack's click. Drone-like in their nature, the newly arrived reinforcements swarm in and surround the machine on all sides. Moths to a light. Just more meat for the grinder.

Fire has broken out inside No. 8's belly. Steam, smoke, and exhaust shoot up and out from gaping joints like purged waste. The whistling steam crests, higher and higher still.

A distorted female recording chimes: _T mi— ten sec— detonat—_

Couldn't have better timing.

"It's gonna blow!"

The troops realize and scatter.

As he’s looking back, Cloud hits him with another dose of restore. The rush isn't quite as potent as the first but it gets his blood pumping, his lungs open, and his feet under him. They reach the mountain rift, the escape route, with no more lagging. Cloud slides through first, sideways, sword clanging against rock, fingers clawing, pulling. Zack follows him up.

_Five._

His shoulders wedge.

_Four._

His sides scrape.

_Three._

His legs kick.

_Two._

His gloves tear.

_One._

It's the percussion wave that hits him first (eardrums bursting in excruciating immediacy), and the heat comes surely thereafter, like the surface of the Sun. The blast forces him forward, helping in his effort, yes, but he's still too big. He's caught, wedged, just a few feet from freedom. Flames lick at his back, enough to make him want to yell and scream and plead and he does, loud enough to stagger his voice, but not nearly loud enough to beat out the splitting air.

He kicks and pulls, fever hot, sweat breaking out over his back and his neck and his legs. His uniform is scorching, burning up, ears ringing and ringing and ringing. Cloud's just ahead on the other side, face urgent, lips moving, forming words, a word. He can't hear him but he knows he's saying his name like a cheer.

_Zack, Zack, Zack._

And then he's free.

The power from his final kick and shove takes Cloud with him to the ground as he flies clear.

Flames fire out from the rift, blushing the sky.

Back to silence.

 

 

_Status: Infantry Cadet - Mission #01 - Northern Continent_

A pungent, overbearing smell takes the air.

He isn't knocked out by the blast but he is knocked over when Zack comes barreling through the tight passage. He throws him back a few good feet, landing him square on his ass.

Cloud doesn't move for a couple beats right after, ears ringing, chest heaving, brain reeling. He first assesses that nothing is going to attack or explode, etc, etc (the list spins on) and then he allows himself to take a lung full of solid, cold air. He sits upright. He blinks. 

That's something that's been bugging him out ever since waking up on the continent. Blinking. Every extended wink or blink (a look up, a yawn) trips a nerve somewhere in his head and _wham_. Crippling pain. He's managed to stop wincing at least.

He gets to his feet, slowly, balancing with a hand out.

He can't say much about his equilibrium.

The passage is glowing like a coal fire. Smoke rises beyond the mountain barricade high in the darkened sky. High relief against the neutral clouds. The reinforcements must all be dead. The warehouse must be gone. And so must that damn machine.

He spots Zack then as he brings his sight line level. He's face down, snow peppered. There's just enough moonlight (and firelight) to illuminate the ice blanket around him, and boy, there’s no need for a torch or a flashlight here, everything glows.

He steps wide as he makes his way over, the snow piled high and loose, his boots sinking down deep. He's getting a better look, now just a step away, and it’s clear he may not be getting back up. Zack's uniform is burned, blackened, the back of his jacket peeling away. Bare skin shows over his shoulder blades, shiny and red. The smell is muted but not shy. It's his flesh, his hair.

Cloud pulls his lips over his teeth.

Restore won't do much good here.

_Oh, damn._

His mother would have tapped her foot.

He drops down next to him.

He’s been anxious over the last gleaming sensations of the Elixir himself. He's gotta say, his head's throbbing, but it's been throbbing ever since they began, and throbbing on as he deflected the soldier's blade. It throbbed on still as No. 8 burst free from the potential shelter, and drummed on as he chopped free its arm and fought it off to win the moment.

Now he's winding down.

Getting closer to zero hour.

The witching hour.

He can feel the residual heat of the machine's grand finale just by being so near to Zack. The explosion and the scorching flames and the noise.

He manages to roll him over after a good two tries, spending all of what little energy he has left. On his back now, in the cooling snow, presented to the sky, Zack's in a worse state. Blood has soaked the snow where he was prone, most of his abdomen. It's as red as in the pictures, as red as rose petals, precious jewels, anything you ever thought as red, even in the half light.

He rushes down with both hands, trying to find the source. Gotta be a bullet wound, has to be. Small but ferocious and pumping out blood like a faucet. He presses both hands down hard an inch from his hipbone, where he figures the damage must be. He's not trained for this. Wasn't groomed for medicine or healing or anything like that. He's shooting in the dark.

"Wake up, wake up."

It doesn't carry.

The wind surges on in good humour.

He barely heard it himself.

Ice obscures Zack's face. It's in his eyebrows, over his eyelids, caught in his eyelashes and dusting his pale lips. Cloud reaches a hand out and swipes it away, as gentle as he can. He doesn't realize he's tracked blood from the wound to Zack's forehead and the tip of his nose.

The expression beneath is blank, lax, sterile.

No more smiles.

"Zack, hey, wake up. Zack?"

Just a broken record.

... _what’s that_...

Cloud darts his head up.

He's almost certain he didn't hear anything when a figure walks out from the grey.

He's losing it. The Elixir's run out.

His head throbs hard on that, turning his empty stomach over as an afterthought.

The figure comes closer, as casual as a man browsing in a shop. And it _is_ a man. An old man. He's bundled up twice his size in jackets and blankets and various cloth things, face only identifiable by the fall of a thin colourless beard. It rolls long over a ratty blue scarf. His legs are long and narrow, sinking far into the snow pile beneath him. He might as well be hovering.

Cloud's parched throat swelters, heat pulses behind his eyeball. Make that plural, make that _phantom_ eyeball. His fever is wanting to come back. He's already begun to shake. Wearily, helplessly, he looks on.

The old man asks, "What's that?"

"Um, I—ah," Cloud stammers.

He doesn't appear dangerous.

But then, Cloud can hardly see straight.

"Ah, please, my friend's... he's..."

The old man strides closer, eerily level in the drift.

“This is a dangerous place."

Somehow his voice carries in the flurry.

Cloud can't help but grow tense.

The old man stands across from him, to Zack's immediate left.

No more than a foot away.

"It’s good I found you," the old man says.

He bends at his hips, leaning down, filling Cloud’s view.

"You're both hurt."


	6. Chapter 6

_Status: Infantry Cadet - Mission #01 - location unknown_

_Oh, I'm alive._

What an uncomfortable realization.

It follows initial relief.

Here's the world again and it's in the shape of a ceiling, the ceiling of a wooden cabin. As he stares up at it, there's reality and the modest glow of distant firelight bathing the walls. Shadows change and switch and shudder lengthy as flames switch and change and shudder lengthy. The heady draft of straw, wood burn and other complex scents become steadily clearer. It's welcoming, mellow, almost like home.

Cloud sits up.

There's a cot below him. It's close to the ground, blankets a toss up of sizes and lengths laid over his legs and feet. He looks to his right, out of no particular compulsion, and finds Zack on a much higher cot next to him, heaped higher still with a variety of blankets of his own. His worn boots hang over the cot's edge, uncovered.

Too damn big for that, too.

Despite the weight of the bundle, his breathing appears even and steady.

"Awake now?"

The old man.

Cloud looks over. "Fantastic," he says, throat gravel.

The figure sits on a stool across the room, fireplace at his back.

"He's in trouble, that one."

Cloud narrows his eye. "Excuse me?"

The old man seems to consider this. He leans forward. "You and your companion. How are you related?"

"He's..." Cloud pauses. He doesn't want to mention Shinra. "A friend."

But, he forgets about their uniforms.

"He's in trouble," the old man repeats.

"He was hurt badly, um, sir. Can you help him?"

The old man produces a pipe. He's no longer layered up like he was before and is considerably smaller for it. He's a thin man, about as intimidating as a withered shrub.

Cloud watches him, eye squinting. That head throbbing from before has followed him here and it's muscling its way back in so soon. Just a tickle now, just a minute distraction, and hopefully it keeps at the manageable level.

The old man taps his pipe.

Cloud adds to the sudden noise, asking, "Will he recover?"

The old man coughs. "That's really up to him."

"How is he?"

"You should rest."

Cloud's chin dips at that and he yawns, nerve twinge surprisingly dormant.

Producing a pouch now, the old man begins to pack his pipe.

"I can't sleep..." Cloud mutters, but his neck grows weak, his head wants to loll. "We have to..." A jaw-splitter says otherwise.

It's the smell (sweet and strong) of tobacco that hits him like a fist. It reminds him so much of Zack. He buries the next yawn, straightening up his back, biting his tongue.

"So,” the old man says, “you've found what makes you strong."

The old man strikes a match and takes quick puffs from the wooden piece.

Strong? 

Cloud can almost remember strong. It had been him against the machine. Zack hung lifeless like a suicide victim tethered to a tree branch, boots swaying, free moving, an ornament. He had no other choice. There came to light no other option. So, Cloud had rushed back to him (to save him… what a retrospect), retracing the space he'd covered trying to escape. With all that gained momentum he launched himself up and took a slicing shot out at the mechanized weapon. Luck had been on his side, you had to figure, or whatever it is people believe in these days. A desperate assault, a last ditch effort (just turn off and remember your training) but it had worked. He fell as Zack fell, landing crouched on his two feet. Zack wasn't so lucky... Neither was the robot. End flashback.

Smoke swirls far and wide, switching off Cloud's view of the old man's face.

"You're (puff puff) lucky,” says the old man. He gestures his pipe to Zack, who sleeps on, quiet and not yet part of their world. "I saw the two of you, but you might not have recognized me."

The old man takes a long drag and leans back, crossing his thin legs at the the lip of his furry white boots. His is a smile obscured by the bristles of his colourless beard and the burn off from his pipe (it's there just the same, good and familiar, fatherly like).

Cloud remains alert, observant, ever watchful. He should be focused and wary while Zack's out. Something could happen. Something's bound to.

"He was with you then and here he is with you now." That grin grows wider, toothy, smoke seeping through the gaps. "You're special to him," the old man says.

Cloud balks, chancing a sidelong look to his companion.

"Special?"

The old man stands, smoke wisp trailing. "Very special. _Vital_."

He walks the few strides from the mantle, and his stool, to stop by Zack.

Cloud's eye grows large as he follows him.

"He's strong." The old man turns his head, features easily pensive. "But, you make him weak."

Cloud ignores this on the surface, but underneath, inside, his pulse has doubled. "How is he?"

The old man shrugs. "You don't listen."

Cloud frowns. "Well, you haven't said a lot."

"I've said more than I had to."

The old man parks his pipe on his slack lips and peels Zack's piled quilted layers away with both hands, one by one, as if peeling an onion. The last two layers are thin sheets, the full extent, the whole picture, hidden below. It could be less than Cloud's original dire diagnosis or, as would be their luck, even worse.

Blood stain punctuates and breaks up the canvas white fabric (think: apples, lipstick, bull fighting), evident around his middle, dying a deeper pomegranate (red brick) where it's clung to his burned flesh.

The old man pulls these two layers back as well, revealing naked flesh underneath.

Cloud is a bystander, unable and unwilling to divert his eye away. The smell that meets his nose is a pleasant, musky, and earthy one. Pine needles or tree bark or crushed flower petals. The inside of an ancient apothecary, a greenhouse, the forest floor.

Zack’s a highway of twisted bandages, a patchwork of twice-wrapped egg shell cloth and rainbow random ribbon, even snatches of string. His torso would otherwise be bare if it weren't for all the interlaced wrappings, like a quickly put together present.

Dark blue trousers cover his lower half. He rests on his belly, off the burns, his face turned to the side and a mystery. A solid blood-spotted square compress marks what must be the bullet wound. Moist and pink (think: gum line) are the burns visible at the back of his neck, the top and juts of his shoulders, and along his sides. They look as if they've done some rapid healing in the time elapsed. They only have to air out and scar over now.

The old man's vague impression still stirs anxiety. He resets the layers, says no more, and returns to his stool. Setting down his pipe on a nearby chest of drawers, he turns to tend to the fire. 

With his eyes off of him, Cloud pulls himself up from his cot, throwing his own blankets down to his shins. He finds he's not in uniform anymore, but instead a clean but threadbare tan or brown shirt and slacks.

It's not easy going, his limbs stiff, but he gets his bare feet to the floor, fuzzy warmth greeting him as an animal fur rug. He crosses the short break to where Zack rests. The earthy aroma is more pungent, filling his perception, cooling some heat, but then, the long, looping and marred mess of bandages are just under his face.

"Zack?"

He listens.

Not hopeful.

Well, that's a lie (he's more hopeful than he should be).

Zack doesn't deserve this, and come to think of it, _he_ doesn't deserve this either, but that's not the point. The point is: Zack might be a little brash and brave but that counts for something. They're not dead, he didn't leave him to die or kill him himself, or ever stop smiling. He's a good guy, and far from the feral, crazed traitor Sephiroth made him out to be.

That man had looked into his eyes and everything, his own impervious and humourless, and told him he wouldn't hesitate to leave him behind or strand him, or use him if it suited his needs. There had been no diversion or cut away as the General explained how he would dispatch the troop by blade or his own two hands. Those pronounced words crisp and sharp. 

That hold Sephiroth had, that presence (all around suffocating)... Cloud hadn't been able to move, blink, or breathe under it. They’d all been dumbstruck. That static stare. Deep as black forest. He believed every word.

"Cloud..." Zack groans and turns his head.

"You're not dead," Cloud blurts.

Zack’s single eye (some kind of mockery) spots him. Bristling black hair grumbles, "Trying to get rid of me?"

"Fabulous," the old man interrupts.

Zack blanches.

Cloud looks over.

The old man stands at the foot of the cot.

"What—”

He cuts Zack off in such a way, Cloud's not entirely sure he heard him at all.

"If you want to know how you ended up here, it wasn't easy. I am not as young as I used to be but I've never left a man stranded. You're in my home. I don't have coordinates. This valley had a name once upon a time too, but as I said, I am out of prime and things will be forgotten."

"Are we—"

"Safe here? I should say so."

The old man paces away, clearing his throat, all the while working at that pipe.

The cot creaks as Zack rolls carefully over, and creaks again as he moves to sit upright. He's combing that unruly hair from his brow. Having settled, he looks over to Cloud, and Cloud is, well, it's hard to explain how Cloud is.

From what he's seen and heard of Zack, and what he's seeing now, eyes even and cool, handsome face open and friendly—he has every right to feel what he's feeling, and that’s relief. But, it's not just that either, no (not so simple), it's something else, and that's the worry, the complication. He has no idea what _it_ is: love or respect or adoration.

Cloud looks down and away.

_Special, huh?_

The moment is heavy.

Him on his knees at his bed, Zack prone.

It could be a damn painting.

His mother would scold him.

Zack lifts an arm and gestures.

"How's your—"

He trails off on his own, not finishing.

Cloud reaches up, still diverting the eye contact. He hasn't wanted to feel it, solidify it as fact, but he does now. There's knit material under his fingertips, soft as downy bird feather, and under that, pulled taut, a bandage. He runs his fingers over the bandage, where his eye would (under normal circumstances) be, but all he finds is a perilous void, a shallow hole outlining the orbit of his eye socket. He pulls his hand back, putting it on bed cloth. He doesn't want to know more.

He contemplates and finally settles with, "Could be worse."

Zack's flash of a half smile, an instant sunrise, it fools him into giving one back.

"What a trip..." Zack sighs. He stretches his spine, vertebrae crackling their relief and protest. "Man, could I go for a smoke. Or ten." He pats where his jacket pockets would be, a frown forming. "Where are my—?"

There's a moment of dead air then. Sweet smoke swirls, poor man's thurification.

The old man twitches his head up from where he stands then, as if out of sleep. He clears his throat, smoke sputtering, and then he starts a search. He goes rifling through his pockets, slacks and long coat both, and recovers a dingy silver lighter and a red and yellow package. Clearing the room, he brings them over to set them both in Zack's open hand.

"Don't be afraid to dirty the floor. Enough of my own ashes down there. Won't notice more."

He regresses to his stool, sitting carefully.

"How long have we been here, old man?" Zack inquires, pulling free a cigarette.

"Oh," the old man stokes the fire, mulling the question over. "It depends."

Zack places the cigarette on his lips and lights the far end. New smoke breeds.

"Time rolls differently here, so. Maybe a day, maybe a week."

"What? How does that work?" Cloud asks.

"I've asked myself that before... Don't know, to be frank."

Their collective brows crease.

"If you're wanting back home though... I can help."

"How, exac—" Zack's matter of fact tone is again clipped.

"Rest and become well. I'll show you soon."

His metal lighter lid Zack clicks shut, eyes panning to find Cloud. He shrugs.

Well, they have little choice.

"Hungry?" the old man offers.

 

 

_Status: Ex-SOLDIER 3rd class - Mission aborted_

He must have done something right. At least a little bit along the way. He's not exactly a saint, don't get him wrong, but he's not corrupt either. And, for a kid who couldn't hope to budge him earlier, Cloud really kicked some ass. He's being outshined by a half pint infantry grunt. He was formerly unacquainted with humility.

The same old diabolical and frozen death trap is still out there in the unknown, as he sees it from a frosted over window. Unforgiving, blistering, frozen. The atmosphere out there would be a stinging, painful grate rather than this warm, holistic trance. He’s grateful. But, he’s also leery. Anyone this old, and who appears to have been here this long, can’t be all there.

They eat soup the old guy prepared in relative silence (to say nothing of the scraping of their spoons at the bottoms of emptying bowls). It could be laced, poisoned, whatever. It crosses Zack’s mind once, agonizing and cruel, and then he’s too busy filling himself to care.

The smell of it cooking over the hearth was intoxicating enough. It reminded him of his hearty SOLDIER appetite, and his body as a whole.

He felt it entirely essential to ration in a cigarette (or three) to dampen the growl and the general unrest until it was warmed. Plus, it gave him something to do. Other than inspecting Cloud.

They both finish their fair share, even with all the green, leafy things floating around like refugees.

Cloud yawns as he says, "Could sleep for a week."

"Go ahead," Zack encourages, lighting the after meal cigarette.

"I… don’t know." The kid looks torn. That almost perfect face in perfect regretful profile.

"Yes, you should. Get all you can when you can, " the old guy urges.

Zack regards the old guy openly, gauging, reading, but says nothing in return. Cloud is looking at him when he returns. He can't be more than fifteen years-old, but, he also can't be younger than eighteen, because Shinra wouldn't allow it. Unless he lied.

Zack takes a drag.

That innocent face.

That vibrant blue eye.

That bounce back.

He exhales, nice and slow.

That gentle projection.

He's disarmingly (beautiful, transfixing, elegant, compelling) young.

"Wake me up in an hour?" Cloud asks him. It's soft and low and just for him.

It’s an acid spike to Zack's guts.

He nods, letting the dregs of the exhale go through his nostrils.

 

 

Zack’s half through cigarette number seven when the old man dissolves his assumed perception of his very probable expiration.

He had been stationary for so long.

"Zackary is it?"

Zack exhales pointedly. "It's just Zack."

He must have found his Shinra ID card.

"That's your name, isn't it?" the old man prods.

"For my mother maybe."

Cloud's still out when he throws a look over to him. He dropped off facing away from him, that alarmingly blonde head of his obscured by the knot of his new scarf and the absurd amount of blankets balanced atop.

He's cocooned, in larval form, and soon he'll be something else (strange and wonderful).

The old guy is facing away as well, looking to the fire, leaned over, hunched. Besides that stool of his, this cot and Cloud's, there are no other notable bits of furniture in the cabin. He has shelves and chests (filled or covered with empty jars and rocks and books), sure, but no formal table. No pattern.

A kitchen and an exposed water heater take up the far end, a collage of dried flowers hangs above the mantle opposite the only door (presumed the main entrance), a writing desk hibernates to his immediate right, envelopes and sheaves of paper disturbing its dusty surface, and a long bookshelf is to his left, closest to Cloud, lining the wall with the door (no books are on this one just more glass jars, and these are filled with liquids and solids of debatable origins).

"Zackary Fair and Cloud Strife..."

The old guy turns now, the two plastic ID cards visible in his mitts.

"I'd rather you gave those back," Zack says, trying for Mr. Nice.

"Why hold on to the shreds of an old life?"

Zack pulls in a clot of smoke. "Still my shreds."

"True." The old man takes a sighing breath. "Then think of it as a gift." And he looks up, face unreadable. "So this one moment I can remember."

They won't need them. Not anymore. And that could be proof too, to somebody who might come by, someone associated with Shinra, that they must be dead.

The old man must have scrounged what he could and left the remains.

Zack huffs, smoke jetting. "On one condition," he says.

The old man quirks his head.

"When my buddy wakes up," he jerks a thumb to Cloud, "you tell us how we get home."

_Home._

_What a gas._

The old man touches his chin. In his hand, Cloud's ID stares out.

"Agreed." The old man chuckles. "Was going to anyway."

Zack rolls his eyes and flicks the spent cigarette.

 

 

They don't all get up at once.

Cloud dozes on as Zack sees himself to his feet. The old man chides him from afar, half-heartedly retelling a story of old time plight and pain and suffering as Zack goes at it.

His bones and muscles have gone stiff from disuse and healing, and they pull tight underneath his tender skin, causing restless spasms. Enough plight and pain there.

How long had he been lying there?

He bends out each leg as they reach the edge of the cot. He stretches out each knee before urging on. The old man, meanwhile, hacks and coughs and mumbles to himself about the proceedings of the story.

Ever so slowly Zack stands, hissing a full blast of air out as he rises, spine cracking and correcting. At his crest, he waits for his head to clear. Good, long breaths are a constant.

How miserable. What a wreck.

"Good as new," the old man says, sarcasm aplenty.

Zack smiles sharply, sardonically, and regards his new slacks. Shabby and torn and faded, not unlike his uniform as it is now. Not unlike his purpose at all anymore. Shabby, torn and faded out like a dead star.

He faces Cloud's cot. It's down low so he has to ease down too to come to it. The going's rough, his injured side protesting the loudest, but he doesn't make a noise or a show of it.

He settles on the balls of his feet and reaches out, nudging the kid's narrow shoulders. The shoulders pull away.

"Cloud. Time to get up." He waits on that.

A smile buds.

He adds, "We're at grandma's house."

Cloud carefully turns over. His singular eyebrow is raised.

"Hey," Zack greets. He lets the smile go and it blooms wonderfully.

Cloud gives him no immediate approval or disapproval.

The old man retires any hope of a redo as he comes up, arms filled with furs and cloth and string rolling off tiny spools. He swings the load at Zack and Cloud both, a beckoning gesture, and then lets the furs and miscellaneous flow from him arms and to the floor. It's a down pour of fabric. Dust and ash displaces into the air, creeping up and out.

"These are for you,” he says.

Zack can't rightly dispute. He shuffles over to begin pulling through the heap.

Cloud gets up and follows quietly behind.

They find whatever matches and whatever fits, and whatever isn't half-finished or raw material, or bundles of loose thread. The surrogate clothing is heavy and padded and fur, enough to choke out the steely bite of the ever present northern elements.

Zack's gonna want to spend a month on the beach after this one for sure.

He’s helping Cloud tie up a pair of decidedly feminine knee high, paratrooper style leather boots (the only complete set that fit, to both of their chagrin) when the damn old man hands him a bouffant furry thing. A hat.

The guy doesn't react to Zack's begrudging air, and doesn't take _no thanks_ for an answer. Zack puts the abomination on, if only to get it out of his hands so he can finish lacing.

Cloud immediately reacts.

"You look like a fur trader or, no, no, a _bear_ ," he says, and doesn't stifle his laughter very well.

Zack shrugs but grins, making claws with his fingers and completing the picture with a sneer.

Cloud nearly chokes. "You're nuts," he professes.

"Like _you_ have room to talk, lady boots."

 

 

The sky has cleared at last and the sun now glares down at them from on high, casting its essence along the fresh melting snow, gleaming far and wide.

They're higher up the valley than they were the night before (or weeks, don't forget, shit). Zack's outside, looking down into the flaming bright basin as dormant and unbroken as a dinner plate. The air is thinner here and the chill itself enough to stop you dead.

He pulls his new jacket tighter around his throat, the furred collar brushing his lips, smelling old.

Speaking of old...

"It's over this way, SOLDIER, " the old guy calls.

Zack turns. He then corrects and looks up. "You have an airship?"

"She's an antique now, just like me."

The ship itself, in all its glory, is larger than the old man's shack and parked right behind it. It's camouflaged under a speckled grey and white canvas. From a distance it must not be perceptible at all.

"Does it still fly?"

"We'll have to find out," the old man answers.

"Great," Zack groans.

"Don't trust much, but trust me," says the old man, heading around the shack to the ship.

"This guy's a..." Zack grumbles.

"I can see someone," Cloud cuts in, subdued.

Never a dull moment.

He's standing stalk still next to Zack, facing out to the valley.

Zack follows his stare. He has to squint against the glare.

He's right though An outline is coming their way, treading up the slope, shimmering in the distance. Although, as he looks, holding his hands up to his eyes to shield the glare, it looks like it could be two figures huddled together.

"Should we do something?" Cloud asks, looking to him.

He means should they help them.

What a bleeding heart.

Zack's not so optimistic today.

"Oi!" he calls out to the two.

The figures halt.

Zack moves Cloud to his flank, unsure of their alignment or their state.

The air pops wild rebounding vibration.

Cloud jumps, startled.

One of the figures appears injured, the other appears to be pissed and now holding a long-barreled rifle.

There comes another gun shot, a solid mass in the emptiness. 

It’s a clear answer.

Zack reaches back to pull Cloud down with him as he ducks low himself. Cloud's retreated several feet too far out of his reach though, just too much. As Zack looks back to compensate, looking dead on him, completely focused, almost there, fingers brushing—another shot rings out, _crack_ , and Cloud jerks away. The golden boy twists with the recoil, spinning almost completely around before landing flat out, face down, in the slush.

The report echoes.

Zack stares on wide-eyed.

"Got one!" cries the rifleman.

... _Got one, got one, got one_...

Zack's blood sets to boiling. His hairline fracture resolve, an ever-expanding web of cracks fanning out, consumes his harmony.

Unarmed he may be, but he dashes off, blind but for one thing: the long-barreled rifle and the person behind it.

His stride is full speed, flat out. He's crashing down the incline to catch him during the reload. He's not wishing, no, just keeping the faith, and headed straight into the mouth of the beast. Nothing but the hard sought outcome of revenge (that fucker's head on a spike) will clean this depth of red from his eye.

He’s coming, he’s ready, he’s crashing low into the fumbling figure, a body as tall as he, a human with a face, but he doesn't see it. The figure stares him down the entire length of his approach, choosing to reload instead of fleeing.

Zack's gone, snapped. The rifle is knocked free (falling out of sight and lost in the white) and he plows the figure far over the curve of the slope. The figure goes tumbling head over heels, rolling back down. From Zack’s side, the injured figure now rises, coming with his own retaliation, vision and clout. 

Zack takes the figure's first crashing fist, a left hook, but he doesn't take anything else after. He strikes back with an elbow to the guy's nose and a right hook to counter the left. If not causing concussion, than dislodging a few teeth as it lands. The figure fails and sprawls out in the snow in mock reverence. Much like Cloud had.

_Cloud._

The stoked burning rises in his chest, scorching, intense to the point of religious revelation. It’s urging him forward, forcing his hand. He trudges over to retrieve the rifleman prone in the snow, mewling and moaning and trying his very best to crawl away. With that blood red still in his eye, Zack snatches him by the back of his uniform collar and brings him to his feet.

He trembles, barely contained.

"Hey, stop!"

A clear shot through the mist. Part the sea. Clear the heavens.

“Stop!” howls Cloud.

Zack blinks. He finds he's staring into a face he knows, mitts bunching the front of his uniform.

 _Troy_ , the cigarette bully, now just _a_ bully.

He releases his grip and Troy falls free.

He's one of the two unaccounted cadets from the crash.

The crash, the white out, the black out, the stars twinkling silver and then blackout wisp. The burning bright chopper, the dead bodies. Cloud's steaming, smoking body, and his cracked and bloody helmet, his lonely blue eye, his pale, _pale_ lips. That crash? Oh, yeah.

"You killed him, you killed him, you _asshole_!" Troy screams. The cadet surges up and beats his own two fists against Zack's chest and face.

Zack deflects as he can, stepping back and away.

Cloud reaches them, having come down the slope in a graceless slow-motion stumble. Snow's caught in his hair and flecked in his ridiculous fur coat. The old man's blue scarf is held fast in his hand, whipping long behind. The naked white bandage borders the fall of his hair. It's tight around his small head, containing his damage and pain.

That's enough to stir up the hungry scorch again, but Zack quells it. He sets it aside, cools it down, because he's not dead, _thank you, thank you, ow_.

Troy socks him right in the hip, aggravating his wound. Zack grunts and shoves him in the chest, rather than punching him inside out. The force alone knocks Troy clean off his feet and back into the snow. He curses and flounders, but wisely relents to check his friend.

Cloud has the gall to ask, "Are you okay?"

Zack pulls him close. He says not a word, or quip, or a clever remark. He throws open the kid's long coat, and reaches inside. He turns him from this side to that side, palms skating closer and closer, feeling his shape, leaching heat. Over his hips and his stomach he goes, across breast bone, and his dragon spine.

Cloud protests and struggles but Zack insists, needing to know.

"Stop it, geez! I'm fine."

He’s right though. He’s unharmed, warm, solid.

"It just winged me, my _coat_ , is all. Saw it coming," Cloud mumbles. He's frowning now. " _You_ go off like a madman."

Zack compresses his teeth. "I didn't have a choice," he answers.

"What does that mean?" Cloud asks.

Zack balls his fists.

"He's _dead_!" Troy screams, again approaching.

The wail echoes for days.

_Dead, dead, dead._

Zack closes his eyes for a moment.

He’s not dead. He couldn’t be.

Troy’s already on him, reaching, growling, "He's dead, you mon—"

But, Zack punches him out.

Cloud flinches.

Zack composes and admits, shaking his fist: "It was my only option."


	7. Chapter 7

_Status: Ex-SOLDIER 3rd class - Mission aborted_

"Your _only_ option?"

It's just like when he was being scolded by his mother. That same kind of zing or sudden pang that nobody, _really, so stop trying_ , could bring out like she could. It’s very much the same shade of shame and surprise and hurt manufactured a lifetime ago, already threaded through with the lies and mind games of Shinra, and just as striking and unyielding as in its genesis.

The pounding head left over from the rushing blood and the rushing dash just adds to the sour cocktail. It's enough to make a guy second guess his actions, his goals, his entire meaning and get that same terrible tingling in his bowels. That same shame.

Oh, just like old times.

He's not showing a lick of it, mind you, but then he's not a looking glass like he was when his mother held sway. Or even like he was a year ago. He's stiffened up since then, been tangled good and proper in his (former) shining aspirations and (former) training. And, if you really want to know, he's having a hard time shedding those attributes down to the core. To his splintering shell. What is he if he isn't SOLDIER?

If there could be any consolation in this moment, just a tickle, anything to ease the stress—at least he doesn't have to stand and take it like he did as a child. He's free to dispute or bail, fight or fail.

Cloud is fuming at his decision, his face full on red (a touch from the chill, a touch from the trek, a touch from his inner soul). It's only the second bout of colour Zack's seen there since their first real meeting. It was nothing but blanched skin and cut lips then. This is a polar opposite, a complete turn around.

He’s moving away from it nonetheless, away from the new development, ready to leave the traces of his half-thought decision, and Cloud and his gaping mouth, right where they are. Cloud's opinion of him is important, _absolutely_ , but their survival trumps all.

That's it. It’s done. He's going to get that old coot and they're going to get on that airship. They're going to go home, even if he's still confused about that whole home situation right now. Let’s just stop the bullshit, and the surprises and the sudden attacks and the near death experiences, and get back to sanity.

"—hey, Zack."

"I'd suggest in the future that you stay closer to me," Zack says.

"Okay, sure," Cloud agrees.

Zack stands, looking on.

Cloud fidgets, deflated, finding sudden interest in his scarf. "That wasn't the greatest move on my part, I know," he adds.

"Had me going for a minute there..." Zack grumbles.

Cloud remains enchanted with his head gear.

Zack is a wall.

Cue an awkward stretch of time.

The wind shrills and breathes breathy sharp. The sunlight gleams strongly behind Cloud. It comes over his shoulder (like a twin) and highlights through his short hair. The brilliant backlight of God's light bulb burns the image in.

Zack won’t soon forget it (his silhouette, his wire-thin self), even as he’s blinded.

Up the incline, the sputter of an engine trying to turn over comes.

Zack adds a step to his retreat.

"Let's go."

Cloud doesn't hurry to take up the offer. "We can't leave them here," he says.

Troy is sprawled out. The other figure is in agreement, sprawled out as well.

"They'll freeze. We should...."

He looks up the slope and then back. Concern renews the fading blush.

He's unlike so much of what Zack knows (become used to, been conditioned to). He's not like Sephiroth at all. Not in the least. These are different eyes, different statures, builds, morals, projections, and... well, there's a same complexion sure, and that damn SOLDIER connection... but that's a stretch, that's accounting for chance and attendance. He's as far from that nut job as you could get without overlapping and coming right back around to where they differed in the first place. Dark side light.

"You can't let their own fear condemn them."

This kid, pure and clean and true, not yet touched on by the gloomier things of the underground drudgery and dark—that's Cloud. Who stands for Justice when Justice is dead and buried and walked over like the forgotten cemeteries of an obsolete era?

Some still do, some still fight, and Zack thought, for the _longest_ time, that he was one of them. It turns out that he had been wrong. What a buzz kill. But, this small thing, Cloud, he fights. And he does so tooth and nail, like the last of a dying kind. So, that's something. Even if Zack is, meanwhile, being torn to shreds, to ribbons, conflicted and opposed. Even if it gets the best of him and drives him down. There Cloud is, gritting his teeth, clenching his fists, ready to show him how the hero stuff really goes.

It's no wonder, no big shocker, that Zack's been slowing his pace. There's evidence, as clear as the shrug of his shoulders and the tension in his guts. He isn't sure which direction to choose anymore, but he is certain that whichever one he ends up with will lead him too soon down a path stopped at the foot of a gravestone. The name etched into the stone is anyone's guess. But maybe, just maybe, it will bring him across the brink of satisfaction. It's that promise that has him by the balls. Oh, the flickering reprieve. Oh, the hopes that everything will turn out in the end.

Don't panic.

It's just too potent not to entertain. It sounds like destiny or fate in his movie reel (his fictional story), but, it's probably more like desperation, or insanity, or, of all the ugly things, _fear_. He hasn't failed much in his life. Although, he's never really cared to take a look back and check the damage. Too damn busy grinning and joking and rushing ahead, beating 'em all to the punch.

He joined Shinra to fight in the war after all, not himself.

"So, what do you suggest?"

"Leave them with the old man," Cloud says.

"I don't want to bargain with that weirdo." Zack bristles.

"You won't have to," Cloud affirms, voice devoid of inflection. "I will."

Zack relaxes little. "He likes you better anyway."

Cloud’s one visible eyebrow creases, twitching toward a frown.

They're both grasping at straws, role playing, just trying to get back to something they know; a place where things aren't quite so tits up and their troubles seem much more manageable. Until then... Zack takes the two cadets, one over each shoulder, and strikes up the slope.

This is a real burden, these cadets, and this situation. He can't help but make the association, sorry. It's about reflection, soul searching, inner peace. Life's a lesson, sure, but this is ridiculous. He's got the weight of his love (because that's what it is, son, no hidin' that) of Cloud on one hand, and his worry for his parents and utter disdain (revenge, vendetta) for Shinra and friends on the other. Each as heavy as the next, but one more than all.

Cloud trails at his side, following him the way back to the old guy's place, and maybe even to some kind of solution to this falling out. He's close enough that Zack can hear him breathing. He's so close, in fact, that he can feel his radiant heat. That's some old comfort. That's familiar already. His aching side is not. 

That sputtering engine is barking now, becoming a vibrant hum.

He smiles at that, while he still can.

At the crest of the snowy hill, right where it levels out and becomes the pathway to the old coot's front door, his furry hat sits. They watched the two figures approaching from there. The damn thing flew off as he hauled ass down to intercept them. Right after the second shot. Right after what he thought was tragedy.

A far burst of black smudges in the sky. Probably from when the airship coughed to life. It's a mark on the smooth ease of expanse. It's lonely. Picturesque. Cloud picks up the hat as they pass, turning it over and bundling his scarf inside. He puts this combined unit under his arm.

He says, "Wait here," and then goes around the side of the old guy’s shack.

Zack waits. As he waits, he thinks. As he thinks, he looks left to right and then turns to see behind, checking their location once more.

Where do we go now? What is the appropriate response?

Cloud and the old guy emerge after a time.

They're in conversation.

"I see," the old coot's saying. The guy’s a hair taller than Zack. Cloud looks infantile next to him.

Zack readjusts the limp cadet on his right. His thoughts scatter in a wince. A pinch smarts his side and an itch flares up his back. The old guy holds the door to his shack open, waving for them to come in. Cloud enters first, Zack moving to follow. He has to ease one cadet down and leave him at the threshold in order to fit inside first.

The cadets are deposited one to a cot.

The old guy stands at the middle of the room now, the fireplace off to his left. He holds a satchel, a rifle and a string of bullet shells. The firelight adds a level of warmth to the scene, turning his otherwise colourless beard a merry orange, his otherwise black eyes a glimmering yellow, his otherwise washed out and dull demeanor a lively veil. He smiles.

Zack doesn't.

There's something about this guy....

"These are yours, as well," the old guy says.

He hands the rifle and bullet strand to Cloud.

The satchel he offloads on Zack.

Cloud checks the rifle and shoulders it.

It's a beauty of a thing: blue steel, oaken-stalked, pump action.

"Can't use the rifle anymore and that," the old guy says, shaking the satchel in Zack's hands, "possessions I found on you, and some extras too. Clean bandages, rations, whatever I thought you might need. It'll get you as far as Shinra, if you're as spry as I was in my younger years."

He quiets, a solemn look disrupting. "But, I think you've proved that."

Cloud reaches out his hand and says, "Thanks again, sir."

The old coot takes that hand in his dried out one, shaking it heartily.

Zack shoulders the satchel and looks away.

It's pushing dusk when they step outside again.

Zack and Cloud both have a moment (a quizzical shared look) but let it pass. The old man strides ahead, that gait of his longer than a field of daisies. As he goes he's saying, "No time to lose. Come on, come on. There are procedures and preparations and flips to flip and fires to stoke and tobacco to smoke. We don't want to lose the sunlight, now do we? Or do we?"

Zack keeps his eyes on the sky, following the two, but at a lagging pace.

The old guy was right.

New snowfall has covered their tracks and all evidence of the tussle.

Time is far from linear in this place.

That helps him understand little.

His furry sleeve is tugged and his attention reclaimed.

"Coming?" Cloud asks.

 

 

The airship is rather generic and plain in its construction, and much like a traditional sea boat. The few major differences are four propellers at four opposite corners atop four wooden stilts. These rise above a canvas and wooden frame at the ship's middle. This canvas billows and furls, filled with hot air heated by a flame, fed by coal, or wood chips, or maybe even gasoline (he really doesn't know at this point). This air bag, this single lung, it's strapped by rope and line to the ship's guts and galley that hang below. Two more propellers face outward at the ship's rear end, along with a little rudder and a modest anchor.

It isn't much to look at, but it’s their ticket home.

Zack can't deny he's feeling a keen sense of attachment already. That living, turning, geared-up hum. That thudding and beating mechanical heart. He's never piloted one before, or, well—to be more specific—he's never piloted _anything_ before. He doesn't even drive. 

He's not a pilot. He's a rough 'em up SOLDIER boy. He has every confidence that he can though. He's played plenty of video games and spent plenty of daydreams cooling down shirtless, staring up at Gongaga's unlimited sky and wondering, wondering, wondering, what would it be like to fly? Sure. But, there's no reset button or jarring realization here, and damn if he'd only had one of those six weeks ago....

They make it up the lengthy rope ladder and to the inside. The ship's innards are an open unit laid out. No below deck or engine room, it's all right there, loud and proud and fuming. The smell reminds Zack of his bad habit, his nagging friend, and he grows irritated as the old guy continues to take them on a tour.

"This is your furnace," the old guy yells, trying to top the engine noise. "Your lungs, muscle, and heart, as it were. This needs a constant feed of coal about as often as she wants to keep 'er airborne. The meter here," he points to a red, glass-faced gauge, "this tells you how hot she is. Don't go over this little bar here. See it?"

He taps the gauge.

The _tink tink_ is hardly audible.

Cloud nods.

"There is another one up at the helm, but this one is reliable."

The old guy winks.

Cloud nods again.

"Bet my life on this machine. Other than that, this gal used to ship booze and other things to many different places across many different continents in my time. The wide open floors you see here were never empty in those days. Always moving something or someone... Always busy." He fades at the end, running out of breath, "It'll get you across the sea."

They step closer to the helm and away from the ship's rowdy guts.

"She's as simple as they come," he adds.

"Anything else we need to know?" Cloud asks him.

Zack listens, arms crossed over his chest.

The old guy turns to face them both.

"Stay safe," he says, and then he’s leaving.

“That’s it?” Zack asks Cloud.

“Guess so,” he answers.

With the heat of the furnace at their backs they no longer need the old coot's surrogate tundra clothing. Zack removes his heavy long coat and tosses it on the low bench that is the passenger seating area located by the main door. It's laden already with the satchel and his sword and Cloud's rifle. Everything is covered completely as Cloud tosses his coat in to keep company.

What does absolutely nothing for Zack is how frighteningly breakable Cloud appears in nothing but his loose cloth shirt and slacks. He swallows thickly and takes a seat, planting himself in the rubbed-raw caramel leather of the pilot's chair.

The ship ascends on its own once untethered from below, the lift going at a senile pace.

He lights that cigarette.

Time to get some of that nicotine and smoke going.

Time to puff all his cares away.

Time for his time, at last.

A good view of the land spreads long in the windscreen. He watches it coolly. The upper atmosphere is peacefully clear, orange and red and cherry blossom. His ears pop as they climb higher, steaming above the old coot's shack, and the mountains, and into the wide, welcoming magenta and tangerine painted sky. That popping crackle in his ears, that pressure release, it's not a new occurrence. He probably would have missed it given any other occasion. But, this circumstance, this is special.

Cloud sits next to him in the co-pilot's chair.

He flinches forward and shoots his hand to his face, covering his nose.

The cool mood instantly changes.

He cups his nose in such a way, such a gentle, trembling way, that Zack's full attention is challenged.

Cloud lets out a groan and sinks back into his chair.

Let's say Zack is startled.

Red creeps its way between Cloud's naked fingers and slides its way down the back of his hand and over his bony knuckles, his bony wrist. It's hyper real, surreal, and just a nosebleed.

Let's say Zack reacts strongly.

He drops his cigarette and turns from the tie-dye horizon. He lets the ship do its own thing and abandons the helm. It's not like there's an autopilot. It's also not like there's something out there in the darkening vault and the thinned out clouds to be concerned about hitting. The damn thing only goes in one direction, and that's straight on.

He stays seated but reaches out to grab Cloud's hand. He moves it away. "Let me see," he says.

Cloud grimaces, sneers, pulls back. Red streams run over his lips and his chin. It's gotten in his mouth and outlined the spaces of his teeth to bring them out in skeletal relief. He's swallowed most of it already. The scent of blood is rousing the air regardless, like dirt and metal chips, mixed in with the already heady exhaust from the airship's single omni-organ. It's complicating Cloud’s breathing. Every new breath he takes goes straight through his mouth.

"Look up, tilt your head back," Zack says.

Cloud closes his eye and does so.

Zack gets up now to lean closer, to assist and assess. He smudges the red from his lips quickly, rubbing it off his chin and his long throat. It only smears and stains. He shouldn't be feeling like he's taking advantage of a not-fifteen-year-old. It's not so easy when his ungloved hands smooth along his warmed, delicate skin and his fingertips itch, wanting so badly to trace those lips again, slowly, carefully. Not so easy at all when Cloud’s face is angled the way it is, turned up to him and receptive as a new flower.

Zack smears the latest run of crimson from his lips.

Cloud tenses even before he leans in. Even before their lips press.

Warm.

Soft.

Wet.

And then not.

Cloud jerks back.

His stare is an ocean eclipse. His overall expression priceless.

Notes of a Shinra shin-dig past.

Hints of awe.

Zack licks his lips and there, he tastes him, his signature.

"Can you...."

Cloud moves the back of his hand to his nose again, stalling the leak.

"Oh, shit. Yeah, yeah."

Zack jumps up. It takes him longer than desired to find the satchel hidden under their coats. He curses silently, incessantly, but he does locate it. He pulls loose a roll of gauze.

Cloud mumbles his thanks and presses it under his nose. Red eats up the impassive tan on contact.

"Keep your head back," Zack says.

Cloud complies, sealing his eye and resting his head on the chair back.

Zack hangs the satchel on his own chair and returns to watching the helm.

He adds no new narrative.

The engine respires loudly.

 

 

The noises of one of the either of them shifting to readjust, the temperamental chugging away of the airship's antiquated engine, and Zack's irritating coughing (as he is wont to do), are all that highlight their flight. It's a constant theme song. It hasn't been altogether silent. Call it unproductive.

Zack regards his last cigarette.

The lucky. How ironic, given it's from a dead boy's pack.

It's upturned, tobacco end first.

He shakes the pack, contemplating, watching it jig alone.

He should save it.

"He was right about you," Cloud says, out of no compunction or cue.

It comes muffled from underneath the ball of gauze.

"Who was?" Zack asks, taking the bait. He's leaned snug in the pilot's chair, boots kicked up on the console.

"The old man," Cloud answers.

"How so? What did he say?"

Cloud remains as he is, head back, gauze steady.

The sky out the windscreen is midnight blue, near black.

Zack draws the lucky and torches it.

His lighter clicks solidly shut, but is muted by the engine noise.

"Is that so?" he says, exuding a storm cloud of smoke.

Cloud chooses silence.

"Well, I never," Zack prods.

This new jet of smoke crawls over Cloud.

"Yeah," Cloud says, his version of snide rearing. He's not doing it to be hateful or cruel, he's doing it to play Zack's little game. He waves at the haze, otherwise unmoving. "He said I'm special."

But this isn't part of his game.

A sheen of sweat makes itself comfortable at the base of Zack's spine.

It stings his raw, pre-burned skin.

"Special to you." Cloud is looking at him now. Square in the face.

Zack takes a long drag and shrugs. "I thought that was obvious," he answers.

If only Cloud could hear his heartbeat.

"Cut it out," Cloud snaps.

Zack really has to look at him now. He's lifted his head and lowered the gauze, the bulk of it a wet, red mass in his entirely too (inadequate) hands. The bleeding's stopped but he's been left stained from nose to chin and lower still. It makes him look formidable, like he wouldn't stop at anything, like his resolve is stronger than the bones of the Earth, like he draws his strength from that very face paint gore, a violent catalyst.

But, it also makes him look frail.

"What do you want with me?" Cloud asks.

Zack reels.

"What do I _want_ with you? You make it sound so insidious. Like, I'm... stealing you away. Like... you're a prisoner or something. I know we don't have a history but damn, you're kidding me."

"That's not what I meant. What I meant is... why do you...."

Zack ashes, casually, giving him time.

"Why do you...." Cloud's red-faced (entirely removed from his nosebleed). "....Why do you _trouble_ yourself with me?"

Zack smirks. It's slow and crawling.

It has an appealing effect on Cloud. His jaw and fingers clench.

Zack gives the moment room to swell.

"I'm not, you know, gay, or anything. But, I’ve never thought about it long enough either, so I could be, I guess. I just.... You make this really awkward, shit."

"Sorry."

"Well, no, don't be. Not just anyone gets me lost for words." Zack blows a new puff of smoke across the console. It meets the windscreen and spreads.

"Okay. You're not just special," he starts, face losing most of its joy and edging somewhere into very serious territory. A place he doesn't often visit (but more and more recently). A place he'd rather forget exists. "You're... _important_. And, I also get the feeling you're not at all who you seem."

"Maybe I am." Cloud tilts his head. "Or maybe I'm just scared shitless."

"Why? You've got me for company."

"As comforting as that is...."

"I'm just kidding," Zack warns.

Cloud smiles and leans his head back. "I know."

The older he gets the more Zack realizes just how compromised his life has become.

Cigarettes, exercise, dietary supplements, work, money, the pecking order, and, ugh, love.

He'll never be as free and without worry as he was when he was a teenager.

Longevity complicates everything.

The moment is a big deal. He might not have something clear cut to show for it at the end but Zack has admitted something he would have held on to otherwise (all the way to his somewhat untimely death, he can bet). It was an earlier conversation concluded, right before the sputtering stop and the heavy silence. Cloud doesn't seem to need much more than that.

The leather of his co-pilot's chair crackles, moving with his movement, cradling and supple. Zack can relate. Can sympathize with that chair. How he wants to hold on, to support, to comfort, to— He's not afraid of losing. Or maybe he is. He always forgets what side he stands on. When things are so shady and hard to see.... You're working backwards all the time.

"So where are we going first?" Cloud asks.

"Southeast."

"Midgar? Is that really a good idea? I mean, what the hell do you plan on doing?"

"I dunno."

Zack looks to the darkness.

"I'll decide when we get there."


	8. Chapter 8

_Status: Ex-SOLDIER 3rd class - Location: Airborne_

"Can I ask you something?"

Doesn't that usually end badly?

Doesn't everything after that statement go terribly, terribly wrong?

Zack's positive that's how this works. Maybe it was gleaned from many previous encounters, but he's also not an idiot. Well, completely. A _complete_ idiot. And things had been going so well. It had been nice to hear a voice, and a friendly voice at that, not just poison slung from someone trying to kill you. You've got to enjoy the little things, of course. Like for example: two arms, two legs, both eyes (he feels a little bad for that one) and some honest to goodness peace.

"Yeah, sure. What's on your mind?"

"Well, everything."

Zack's already wanting for another smoke. After all, he hadn't gotten to finish his lucky. When he became aware of it still smoking on the deck he'd had to stamp it out. That makes even a reburn out of the question now. He'll probably have to wait until Midgar to track some down. They're not the easiest things to find nowadays.

"How long were the cadets out there do you think? Why is General Sephiroth trying to kill you? What happened?"

"That... _is_ a lot of questions." Zack rocks back in his chair. "I don't know how long the cadets were out there. Who cares. They're safe, we're safe. The old guy can have some new friends."

"He was nice enough," Cloud says.

"Sure, for a walking antique."

"What about Sephiroth?"

"That's a short story. It goes from naive, to fantastic, to crazy, to scary, to even scarier in two seconds flat. He's not exactly... stable, y'know. He's crazy. Like—"

"He can't be crazy." Cloud sounds incredulous.

"Interrupting me and everything... You're certainly talkative."

"I'm sorry. It just sounds...."

"Yeah. Well, I don't blame you." Zack looks up, thoughtful, reflective even. "He used to be a good guy."

"What did he do to you?"

He doesn't know what he's asked.

_Terminated. Get this. Term-ih-nated._

"He threatened to kill my family," Zack answers.

Cloud's eyebrow shoots up. "I'm sorry."

"You say that a lot, man. It because you're a little guy?"

Cloud smiles, sheepish.

When did he start doing that? That's another good sign. A sign out of a sea of worry. A goodness for so much badness.

"I might be a little guy...." he starts.

"Yeah,” overrides Zack, “but speak softly and carry a big stick, huh? How's your faucet?"

Cloud takes two breaths in and out, testing the air passage. It's a stuffed up production but that's better than the heaps of viscid gooey redness from earlier. You can count on that.

"Better,” he says.

"How about your head?" Zack asks.

"How about _you_? You were the one burned to a crisp," Cloud exclaims.

"Eh." Zack shrugs. "I'm fine."

"I forget you're SOLDIER..."

Zack's fingers, the very tips, and his ruined back, they itch. "Well, I was."

Cloud clenches his jaw. "Sorry."

"Stop being _sorry_. If you have to... just _apologize_ ," Zack suggests.

Cloud withdraws at that, pulls right back into himself.

Maybe he's heard all of this before. He probably has, and it was probably from his father. That's a good guess, a good start. Zack eyeballs him for a good whole minute. And it isn't a look just for himself, for his own uses and needs. They haven't been for a while now. He's concerned, so this look is a digging one. He's noting how Cloud's holding himself, how he doesn't mask his messy emotions. They jump and twist on what's left of his small, soft face.

No, not his father then. It had to be his mother. Mamma's boy. Sweet and kind, but not entirely, because he clearly has a bone to pick, and something to prove. That's for sure.

"So, that's two questions down...."

"The old guy told me other things," says Cloud.

"Not him again." Zack rolls his eyes and preens his hair.

"Well, hold on. He told me things about Shinra, and about the President, and about you. Not in great detail. He was really very vague."

"I bet he was," Zack groans.

That’s probably what changes the subject.

"Can you do me a favour?" Cloud asks.

Zack leans forward (don't get too excited now). He drops his booted feet to the floor. "What's up?"

"Do you think you can re-do these? They got wet." Cloud’s hand is on the crown of his head, fingers on frayed bandage. He hasn't had his fancy scarf on since it pulled free.

Zack answers with a _can do_.

 

 

_Status: Infantry Cadet - Location: Airborne_

It might be a contrived thought, but he's damaged goods.

It's the reruns that do the most damage, isn't it? The simple thoughts. Simple frets and worries. Those can tear you down the quickest, like a rabid dog, like a rabid fire, like regret and sorrow mixed and glued. Like everything he knows so well.

Zack is going to see what he hasn't been able to, and that's a punch to his already restricted ego enough. He'll see what he's missing, that eye. Not that he hasn't already, but still, it'll be a terrible and ugly sight. Just an empty hole. A facsimile. A real bad joke.

"Come 'ere," Zack says.

Zack left the satchel close by so he doesn't have to get up for it.

Cloud is still in the co-pilot's chair. He watches Zack pull the medical supplies out and then he switches to the windscreen. It's dark out there, empty, forever. Pinpoints of lights show way down below. They must be coastal settlements or ships. It's all giving some contrast of distance. It might as well be an image or a backdrop though, a television screen. He feels filled up with it. The edges of nothingness lopsided, as he only has the one eye to look through.

"Sit." Zack denotes his lap.

Cloud hesitates.

"Yeah, I bite,” Zack says, “but not that hard."

Cloud snorts (almost, just about, because his nose is still stuffed). He goes to sit and comes to rest on the very border of Zack's knee, so as not to intrude, or to intrude as little as possible. With both of them in the chair it sags down low and back, creaking despairingly. Zack doesn't hide his mellow and easy smile as he begins unwinding his bandages, gesturing out wide, tracing out a halo to unloop them.

Bandages. Cloud thinks plural but it's really just one long ribbon wrapped and wrapped around and then tucked into itself at whatever point to keep it secure. Zack goes against this previous wrapping, the loosening relief bringing on a creeping naked sensation in Cloud. The knee under him bounces and the voice attached to it tells him: _Turn_.

He's a little sick then, nauseous. His guts are a fifty pound weight. Just heavy.

Zack keeps his knee jumping.

"Turn, turn, turn," he chants.

Cloud finally does, half facing him.

"Shit," Zack exclaims.

His face isn't giving him disgust. It is giving him something just as familiar though. Just as unkind. Just as painful and harming.

"Lookin' great," Zack tries.

It's pity.

Cloud says nothing.

Zack's bouncing his knee hard underneath him.

Cloud wobbles some, steadying himself on the console.

"I still like you,” Zack offers.

"That's comforting," Cloud grumbles.

"Cheer up."

"Why?"

"Because you're bringin' me down, and we can't both drag ass." Zack brings up the fresh gauze from the satchel. "We can take turns."

"What, dragging ass?" Cloud asks.

"Yeah."

Zack pulls the new bandage taut in his hands as he leans over. He starts at Cloud's left socket, over his forehead, under his ear, and begins layering it up. He doesn't ask him to turn this time, he just bounces his knee. Cloud reacts and moves his head only, allowing Zack to bring the bandage around and around, slowly and carefully and not too tight.

He ties the bandage off when done, leaving the excess to dangle. The long portion hangs over Cloud's back. He can feel it, like a fashionable headband, like something cool and outside the restraints of his normal humdrum history. He can't help but bring a hand up to test it.

_Cool._

Zack says, "I go first."

"How come you get to go first?"

"I'm older. And I'm out of smokes."

"That just means you'll go senile before me. Or die."

"No, that means I go first."

Cloud shrugs.

Zack’s looking at him now, right into his face, just inches away. Cloud sees as the change comes over his features. A visible shadow. A visible _invisible_ shadow. However that works. But it does, and there it is, and Cloud doesn't like it. Not even a little bit. It's pulling down the corners of Zack’s mouth and weighing his brow, obscuring the wonderful light in his genuine eyes. It's threatening to give Cloud a headache.

"I have to go see my parents," Zack says, tone thoughtful.

"Is that safe?"

"At this point, I don't care."

"That could be dangerous."

Zack appears to muse on that, throat working. "I know, but—"

Cloud finishes for him. "You need to know they're okay."

Zack nods.

"Well, I guess we can do that," Cloud says.

" _We_?" Zack asks.

"What?" Cloud straightens up.

That knee jars again, tossing him off balance.

"You're a target, too," Zack reminds. "They'll be looking for us both. Everywhere. It IS a stupid idea. They'll look for us at our homes for sure, but… I have to know. I have to. You have family, right?"

"No."

Zack stops right there. He’s probably going to save an inquiry into that for later.

"What did the old guy say about Shinra?" he asks instead.

"That they're distracted. Something's happening in Midgar," Cloud answers.

"Like what?"

"He didn't say."

"And how does he know all this?"

"He had a cell phone, and an informer."

His phone's no longer in an easy to reach place on his person. It's probably in the satchel.

He reaches for the satchel again, pulling it from the back of his chair and out onto his lap where Cloud isn't. He locates the phone from inside but stops just before flipping it open, his thumb poised above the external display. His eyes are trained on the open satchel. There must be something else in there immediately more important.

"Bullshit," he whispers.

There's a cellophane sealed pack of cigarettes in his hand when Cloud looks. "And you said you didn't like him."

"I just said he was old. Am I wrong?" Zack asks.

"...No." Cloud admits.

"There you go."

He smacks the top end of his newly found goodie into his palm, twice, packing the tobacco inside, and then proceeds to tear the plastic packaging away, his mobile phone forgotten. He first designates what he calls the "lucky", turning a cigarette upside down, and then draws another. His blue slacks, unlike Cloud's, have pockets to use. He retrieves his lighter from one of them and torches the tobacco delight. His lips, even as they pinch the thing tightly, find a way to smile. It's good and goofy. It levels Cloud's mild headache.

Zack blows out a great front of smoke.

"What did he do to you? Sephiroth," Cloud blurts.

"There are words for it. None of them are nice to say or fun to read." After another drag, Zack adds, "How did your parents die?"

Cloud reels.

_Ouch._

When the old man said special, he meant mentally soft, didn't he?

Zack isn't getting mad though, he's just deflecting.

“In a fire," Cloud answers, surprising himself.

"Damn," Zack answers. He drops back into his chair, taking a puff.

Cloud sways with the movement. "Do you think there's someone for everyone?"

Zack’s not ready for that question, Cloud can see it (if he can see anything).

"Well..." Zack mumbles. His smoke curls and folds. "Yeah. I guess I do."

"I never used to," Cloud says.

And that opens a well, unplugs a dam.

He's telling him so much more after that.

"My mother never had any luck. I'm proof of it, I guess. She never found that someone, or that someone never found her. All she got out of life was me, and trouble. She told me that... but not in a bad way, you know. She always meant well."

"What happened then?" Zack waves his hand around at the air, trying to grasp for the right words maybe, but realizing they don’t exist. "With the fire."

"I told her I wanted to join Shinra. She said I was just like my father."

Zack winces.

"That I just wanted to leave. I told her no, they just paid well. I had the application form in my pocket. It had come in the mail. I showed it to her. She didn't want anything to do with it."

Zack lets him go on. He's nursing the cigarette for all it's worth, his stare pointed beyond him and to the ink spot of a sky outside. They're slow and deliberate inhales. The cherry burns close to his face, lighting his unseeing eyes from underneath. It's a strange glow.

"I left. I was so upset. I left." Cloud takes a small breath. "When I came back... the village was in flames, and my mother with it. I didn't have anywhere else to go. The application was still in my pocket, so... here I am. I never used to believe in fate. I still think bad things happen to good people. There is no damn karma. It's only shit."

Zack drops his cigarette to the deck, crushing it under his size ten boot with the leg Cloud isn't perched on. The deck's finish is wooden but it's not in pristine condition. It's blackened and scuffed from so much foot traffic and so many cigarettes before.

"I'm sorry to hear that. All of it," Zack says. "I do believe in karma though. I'm still paying for my mistakes. I'm guessing you never found out who started the fire?"

"No."

Zack breathes heavily.

"Alright, get off. You're putting my leg to sleep sitting like that."

Cloud scoots off and goes back to his chair. He sits there while Zack puts his lighter back in his pocket, the satchel back where he got it from, and relocates his phone. It gives him enough time to muster up what he feels the need to add.

"Thank you."

"For what?" Zack asks.

"For being you."

"I try." Zack grins, and flips open his phone.

A few moments later, he barks, "That's why. They're having a memorial service." He scoffs. “Shinra is having a memorial service in Midgar. For me."

"You're kidding," Cloud says.

"I'm not. It says it here on their fucking website."

He hands the phone over.

It reads: _Shinra is dedicating a full memorial service and parade in honor of the late outstanding SOLDIER 1st Class, Zackary Fair. The services are to run all this weekend, located at Shrina Tower Square, Sector 0. To a selfless servant who died in combat to protect the people. President Shrina thanks you._

"Gave me a promotion and everything," Zack grumbles.

Cloud shakes his head and hands the phone back. "Have you been able to reach anyone?" he asks.

"No. I'm afraid to. What if they track it?"

"I hadn't thought of that..."

Zack takes a suspense-laden drag off his vice and flips his phone closed.

It's still dark out there. Over the world. It was just starting to get nice, too.

_Clang._

The whole of the ship shudders.

"Um." Zack goes on the alert. "Go check that gauge," he tells Cloud.

Cloud springs up and crosses the outlined cargo area, coming to the furnace housing in seconds. The airship rocks, shudders, shakes. He has to grab onto the metal hand bars jutting out around it just to stay on his feet. The ship's beating heart seizes and coughs out a blot of smoke right into his face. Its workings sound laboured.

"Are we over land?" Cloud coughs.

"That doesn't sound good..." Zack replies.

 

 

A streaking ball of flame.

A comet.

A meteor.

That's surely the thought on the minds of the residents of the little fishing town they're hurling towards. They're coming down hard, at a steadily increasing rate, and there's nothing for it, so hold onto your hats.

If they don't break up into a thousand shards of twisted airship shrapnel on impact, they might have a chance at walking away fifty percent lighter. A snowball's chance. He should start repenting now then, right? Get a head start.

Sweet, baby Ruhma, this is going to hurt.


	9. Chapter 9

_Status: Drunk - Location: Tier, fishing town_

He sees the flash before he hears or even notices the mass of it. Cid is sitting on a dock, a sea dock, 20 feet out to water, swigging off a brown bottle with a peeling red label and yelling at the tide. What he’s doing in a fishing town along the northern coast of the eastern continent has something to do with rocket parts and shield housing, but really, it has _everything_ to do with the brined booze. Gets you shit-faced while giving you terrible kidney stones. _What a delight_ , he'd thought. _That's the one for me_. So, here he is either way, legs swaying over the high tide, watching the sky fall, drinking to his heart's content.

Totally at ease.

He's getting less and less sure of the sky falling and more and more sure that it must be—because it defies all other explanation—the end of times. Or, hell, maybe it's a weather balloon. He takes a messy gulp, rubbing at his wet chin. It could be an angel, screaming to earth, wings and all, wanting nothing more than to desperately bed a real human man.

Cid hoots at that.

It could be anything, but it's definitely heading here. Totally at odds. If he started running now he might make it to the end of the dock before being swept up in the hell fire. Instead, he gulps again—a generous amount of brined beer trickling into his already sullied shirt—and he stays put.

"It's comin' right for us!" Someone yells, someone up on the beach.

Cid half turns.

And then it's upon them.

The flaming thing skips off the water on its first contact, casting its front upwards to the blackened vault above, and sails clean over Cid's head. The force and noise knocks him flat onto the deck. The whole flaming thing continues on to crash and roll, over and over, throwing this and that, sand and the like, and comes to a final resting point halfway up the beach.

Smoke pours into the night sky, smudging every star, now reaching for the owl-eyed moon. Spots of flaming debris burn into the sand, the coast and waterline already littered with boards and canvas. They bob in on the tide. Coiled piles of rope and wood beams snap and pop.

The scene is awesome.

Cid corrects himself and looks on.

"Damn,” he marvels.

He takes a final swig before heading in.

 

 

There is already a crowd down on the beach as Cid arrives. Groups are pulling wreckage over, looking in and under the scattered junk, through the mayhem. A propeller hangs wedged in the smooth bend of a palm tree. A cockpit chair, sitting perfectly upright, straps and all, blazes away. And a woman (older than his own Ma) is pouring out water from her sun hat onto a burning bit of... well, that's a man, if he ever saw one.

He hurries over, taking great big steps to get through the sand, careful to avoid the pyres, and any hiding hot bits. "Hey, hey, oh. Cut it out," he urges.

The woman doesn't seem too good for anything other than a light shower and maybe a lengthy staring contest. She clucks and ambles off, probably in search of something else to water.

Cid crouches next to the man. He's on his chest, laid out, face turned out of the sand. What was burning on him wasn't actually burning on him. It was an illusion, thank goodness, or maybe just some good old-fashioned drunkenness, but he's not burned, just some wood nearby.

"Oi. You."

He simply shakes him.

He's awfully warm to the touch.

"You dead?"

He shakes, harder.

"Hey, dead guy."

The group on the beach has put out the fires of immediate threat to their small town. They've started milling about now, scavenging and crowing and bull shitting.

Cid isn't surprised.

They're not the most comely of people, pirates. They'd sooner cut you than pull you from a fire. Sooner loot your pockets than help you off the ground. He doesn't deal with their kind if he can swing it, but cases sometimes call for the random illegal transaction. Rocket parts aren't the easiest things to come by, you know. Most of it is Shinra technology anyhow. You'd be crazy to look inside their borders. You'd be downright mad. Good thing he is.

The body mumbles and twitches at last.

"Oh, hey. Good,” Cid sighs. He is still really very drunk. The world shifts suddenly, something explodes far off on the beach, and he tumbles onto his backside again. The man is up and on his feet when he makes it back to the upright position.

He's a mess, this one. Tall and strong and black of hair. Has some damn shoulders on him, look at that. As broad as the beach is. There's blood here and there. A cut somewhere up in his hairline leaks steadily into his eyebrow and diverts down his right temple. A tear in his blue trousers there, exposing knee, and there's sand, and ash. Cid steadies on his face and finds it loaded with an expression fit to bend steel.

"You're not dead," he says.

The dead man looks down at him, eyes like cooling metal, fraying electricity, super heated coils, flaming petrol, something very, very intense, and then he turns and just... walks off.

A little unsteady maybe, but the dead man walks.

Cid cocks his head. "Hey, you. Wait a minute.” He tries to stand himself and fails. Twice. "You can't just... come, flaming into the night... n' crash everywhere." He gestures with his hands for show. "And then... _walk off_. Like nothin' happened. That's not how it works." He's trailing behind him, every step a challenge. The sand is too loose and too much. He teeters and sways, trying to match his greater pace. "Who are you anyhow?"

The dead man answers, squarely and brittle. "Lost."

"Yeah," Cid agrees with an excited bark. "Y'must be to find yourself in this fine establishment. Nothing but back-stab—"

He's not exactly listening though, Cid's new companion. He's heading to the biggest wreckage of his ship. What Cid has decided is a ship anyway. One doesn't just fall out of the sky, and certainly not in a boat.

"You lose control or somethin'?"

"You could say that."

"Hah. Sense of humour intact."

The dead man swings on him suddenly, almost sending him to his ass for a third time. He's all he can see, the dead man. It’s his unchanging face, and those same eyes, with that same intensely melting stare. Cat eyes. Animal eyes. Feral, Cid decides.

"Where's Cloud?"

"Huh? Clouds?" Cid wobbles back a step and points to the stars. "Up there ya ninny."

"No," the dead man says, clearly annoyed. "My partner. His name is _Cloud_. He's small, blond, has one eye. He was with me. He was right next to me."

"Only found you. Anyone else is bound to have been found. Everyone else is digging 'round in your wreckage. Saw one hauling away a sword. You might—"

"Where?"

The dead man's grabbing him, shaking him much like Cid had done to him just a few moments ago.

"Calm it. I'll show ya."

 

 

The group is large. The central mass gathered around a larger bit of the dead man's burning ship. They're using it as a camp fire. They've had to come some ways down the beach to reach them. People have trailed this way out of boredom, drunken wobbling, or their sticky fingers.

"I'll be wanting that."

This isn't exactly a friendly group. Certainly not one to pose questions at willy-nilly. Some have hatchets, blades, brass knuckles, clubs, missing teeth, gold teeth, and boozed up breath. Cid knows this. He doesn't need to see it.

The very one this formerly dead man is regarding has a huge belly and a black beard. He could chew through a tree stump, and he doesn't look too thrilled to be called out.

"Who are you then?" the huge mass grumbles. He pets the blade laid over his fat thighs.

"It's mine, actually. And I really don't have time for this," the dead man retorts. He doesn't look swayed in the least.

Cid sidles away and back, not sure how the events will pan out. And, if it does happen to get ugly, his hands are staying clean. He might be big, this crash-landed fella', this sky-fallen dead man, but he's still half the other brute’s damn size.

" _It's mine_ , he says," the bearded man sing-songs, taunting. His gut trembles with a laugh. The closest group laughs with him. "What are ya gonna do about it then, pretty boy?" he asks.

The dead man stays silent, his fists forming, looking rather large in the fire light. Meanwhile, Cid's stopped his retreat. He's probably a good five meters back. From this vantage point he can see people creeping in closer from the outskirts, and just more curious eyes.

"Put that lovely mouth o' yours to good use, I would." The smile is cruel, a promise. The teeth inside are just as black as his beard, just as black as the whole of his eyes.

The group laughs once more, booze sloshing, swords clanging, cheers rising. More maws flash broken chompers, and giant guts rumble and sway. The group is quite a lot larger than it was before the first exchange, growing with a gaggle of strange faces of all shapes and ages.

They laugh just that once more. The next scene isn't much to laugh about, if Cid has it correct anyway. He is still really very drunk.

The dead man is quick. Almost too quick. He shoots in, grabs the sword off the fat man's lap, and slashes upwards with it. Fully upwards. A salute to the sky he came from.

The bearded fat lug is cut full up his barrel belly and to his black beard. He narrowly guts him like a fish. Or a whale shark, really. The blood wells slowly to the surface, colouring his blue tattered shirt; colouring the evening. And then he crumples to the beach.

The collected group looks on. No more laughter comes from them.

"They'll kill ya for that, you know," Cid informs.

"Already died once," the dead man retorts.

 

 

The dead man, reclaimed sword in hand, having dealt with the bearded pirate and his oh-so loyal friends, makes for his busted ship once more. The last hulk of it landed just over there, thirty meters (to Cid's pilot's eyes) from where he started at the dock. What the dead man hopes to find might very well still be twisted up in the debris.

"Cloud!" the dead man starts calling.

Cid joins in. "Oi, Clouds!"

He is afforded a peevish look.

They circle the wreckage twice, calling out. But, nothing happens. No one calls back to them, weakly and dying, and no burned or broken body is found. Everyone in the town is safe, and not too upset their bearded buddy is bleeding out in the sand. Small pockets of doused fires smoke up, looking like red and black pillars in the night. It's probably a real sight from afar.

The dead man now looks deflated, tired, like he really did just come screaming and flaming from the sky above. More like a real man now, and less like the angel (but really, as he's concluded, a demon) Cid's hazy brain has made him out to be. His horizon-broad shoulders are sagging. His pace has slowed.

Meanwhile, Cid is still following him, wrestling with a pang, an unusual itch, a sensation he's unused to. It looks like sympathy, but it sure smells of pity.

"If you're looking for a boy, sir, they took him to the inn."

The child’s voice comes from a boy who looks no older than seven.

He'd been watching them, Cid realizes.

The dead man asks where this inn is and then he's off again, trekking up the beach and to the town. Cid follows at his own pace this time. An easy, slow and steady pace. Every step is a big one, his foot filling the prints of the dead man before him. It makes his going a mite easier.

He needs to see this to its curious end.

 

 

_Status: Ex-SOLDIER 3rd class - Location unknown_

Zack's thoughts have gone from _ouch_ to _I lost him_ , to nothing else in as quickly as it took them to fall out of the air. The morbid humour of having survived two crashes in as many days now (or not, as far as an old man can say) doesn't even register.

He came to with a headache and a throbbing leg and side, and spine (a hell of a combo), but _he lost him_. He felt sick enough to throw up, sick enough to fail and fall, because _he lost him_. He very much just wanted to be rescued and cared for and put to bed by now, you know. To feel safe, warm, at ease, but _he lost him_. So, he's fucked. What's the point? Game over.

But, he's not so fucked. He just needs to relax and compose. He has to get to this inn, and find him, retrieve him, and figure out where they are. Then they're slightly less fucked. As a group.

"What?"

"Huh?"

"You said something," the drunk man says.

He has been following him since he woke up, and he hasn't been much help, but he hasn't been an enemy either. Zack will let him be for now. "I didn't," he answers.

"You did. Sounded like _lost_ , or somethin'. I know you're lost, son. I've been wander—"

Zack isn't listening again.

The inn rises before them, situated beyond a minor town square, beyond a minor flood wall at the top of the beach’s dunes. It's a two story cabin style building, naked tree logs supporting the balcony above. A woman watches their approach from the railing above. The front doors are open, and a disturbance is audible from inside. The township around is sleepy for the most part. Everyone's busy on the beach.

Zack strides ahead inside, the drunken man bringing up the rear.

"Just let me go!"

In the lobby, there's Cloud, being hassled by two men. He looks like a little boy arguing with his parents. The two men, presumed employees of the inn, have him trapped in a red arm chair, holding him still, consoling and reasoning. Cloud listens little. He looks ruffled and bruised and a touch singed, but other than that, he's alive. And he’s trying to get away. Zack’s found him.

"Cloud," he breathes.

It's cute, really, heartwarming, soul destroying—how Cloud stops his fretting to looks over to him, and as soon as he sees him he's up, throwing the employee’s arms off with a power he didn't know he had. He doesn't get very far, to Zack's displeasure, because he's spilling out onto the floor the next moment. He stays there until he's lifted him to his feet.

Zack has to resist hugging him, bringing him close, comforting him, touching him, so he bites his tongue instead. Bites until he tastes a fist full of coins.

"I think it's broken," Cloud says, indicating his leg.

"That's all we need," Zack groans.

Cloud leans into him, his full weight a pittance.

"You have the satchel,” Zack notes.

"Uh, right. Yeah," Cloud mumbles. "Must have grabbed it when we went down. I came to with it in my arms." He looks mildly embarrassed by that.

Zack turns to their drunken friend. "We need a room."

The man doesn't seem to comprehend.

Zack's blood pressure skyrockets. "Hey! Did you hear me?"

"I… what? I have a room. Here for one more forsaken night, to be honest. Heading home tomorrow morning. You can bunk with—"

"Thanks," Zack cuts in, "What day is it?"

"Uhh," the man drones. He finally blinks and looks to his slovenly, sandy hands. He starts counting out his fingers. _One, two... one, two three_ … "Friday, I think. Should be."

"Good," Zack says, and looks to Cloud.

Cloud shrugs his shoulders.

The drunken man belches.

 

 

Getting beyond the annoyance of seeing strangers wearing your clothing is proving hard for Zack. Harder than it should rightly be. What does he care if some woman is wearing Cloud's gifted tundra coat? Why should he care if another person is sporting his stupid fluffy hat? And there's Cloud's blue scarf. The sensation simmers under his skin. It's because it’s all they’ve got.

That's true. In a way. But, also not. He's got Cloud, limping along next to him, having considerable trouble mounting the staircase to Cid's room (they finally did exchange pleasantries). He's got his health. He's not dead. They're not dead. But, they very well could be. Later today. Tonight. Probably tomorrow.

In the meantime, they're stuck in a town full of scavengers. They're going to recoup and then form some kind of plan. A plan that gets them to Midgar before the weekend is over, before all sorts of rabble leave the city. They'll have thousands of faces to blend in with during his ceremony. He can confront Sephiroth there. Take him by surprise. It's the best plan he's got.

It's just missing a key element.

They reach Cid's room. There's a bathroom, a wall heater, a bed, and a loveseat inside. Not to mention a tiny curtained window that points to the sea, if you could see through it. It's fogged up.

Zack deposits Cloud onto the loveseat. It's three short steps. He's hissing, pulling a face. All those wonderful signs of pain. He was better on the stairs. It's getting worse. The satchel though, that's an asset. A thing Zack had counted lost along with his lifeline. He starts through their supplies as Cloud reclines, able to rest as much as he can.

Cid's milling about the room, unable to rest. Too much booze (or too little) in his system.

The satchel is still full of their few belongings. The rations, the bandages, his cigarettes (his lighter's still in his pocket), his cell phone (probably battery dead by now), a lone bit of hemp string, and two flat stones. He frowns at these. Reaching deeper, he finds what he's looking for. And, oh, he couldn't be happier. He couldn't want to sing out the joy more. As ridiculous as it sounds, but this is a good moment.

His hand glows brightly as he removes the item from the satchel.

Cid starts and comes over to look.

"Materia! I knew it. You boys _are_ dangerous." He stomps across the room. "Knew it from your boots, dead man. Should’ah listened to my gut. Ain't no normal man I've seen wear those. Only soldiers do."

Zack ignores him. He palms the restore materia and gets to work. He's caught off guard by the voices. You're bound to forget that. It's disarming, static and uncanny. They're low enough, these voices, a quiet, calming sort of lyric. The materia itself is a low grade. He doubts very much it can handle a broken leg, but it's better than nothing. He simply has to touch Cloud with his other hand and the entire room lights up a mellow green.

Cid is probably freaking out to some heightened degree behind him.

The voices begin to shift and change as he concentrates. They grow less calm, more wandering and worrisome. They pick up a rant and chant on, and then divert to a chattering of nonsense. If it was disarming before, it's unsettling now. And he's noticing something else. They're not random. It's just one voice. And it's familiar. He feels like a dumbass for not getting it sooner. It's Cloud. He's hearing Cloud. His thoughts, his fears.

He pulls his hand back and the connection is broken.

Cloud sighs, singular eye closed.

Cid coughs in the background.

Zack gets a whiff of cigarette smoke.

Situation still improving.

"Can I get a hit off that?" he asks, turning. He's already got his hand out, poised.

Cid doesn't bat an eyelash and hands it over. He lights a new one, smiling toothily.

Zack is supremely relieved. This Cid is an alright guy.

"We need your help," he explains through an exhale.

"With what exactly?" Cid muses.

"The two of us, we need to get to Midgar as soon as possible."

Cid mulls this over visibly, nearly comically.

"We've been through a lot of shit,” Zack continues. “We could use a hand. I don't have any money and he's injured. I need to see my parents. Something terrible is going to happen to me. I'm not in the habit of saying please, but please."

"That's a lot of stuff," Cid answers at length.

The silence in between has Zack wondering if he should continue.

"I have a truck, in the fields,” Cid says. “The bed is as big as a house. You two can hold up back there or whatnot. I don't care. Won't even notice ya."

"Thanks,” Zack sighs.

"By the way," Cid adds, "you two should use the shower. You're all sooty."

 

 

Zack still has to rouse Cloud and help him to the bathroom. He sits him down there on the toilet, seat down, and investigates the shower prospects. No tub. That'll make things complicated. He could go for a hot soak, but he’s not going to do anything before taking care of Cloud.

Fresh towels sit on the counter top. Wash cloths too.

"I'll just rub you down," Zack decides.

Cloud nods, clearly beat and too tired to argue.

He dampens a wash cloth from the sink and starts with Cloud’s face, wiping away the soot and sweat and the toil. His face becomes smooth and white again as he goes, so bereft of any colouring but his bitten lips. As he works, he leans closer, those lips closer too, and surely red.

It's not a long kiss. He's not keen on Cid walking in for any reason.

Cloud appears no more aware for it, but he does ask, "What was that for?"

“Touching bases," Zack explains.

And he continues his work.


	10. Chapter 10

_Status: Ex-SOLDIER 3rd Class - Location: Tier, fishing town_

Zack sleeps uneasily that night, be he does sleep some.

Even after a hot shower, another cigarette and something solid to eat, he still couldn't bring his racing thoughts under control. He spread out on the floor and worried.

Cloud was out as soon as he finished cleaning him up and reset him on the loveseat. Too worn out from the thick of it. He's in the very same position he left him the night before: upright against the seat back, feet on their heels, legs stretched out. He didn't adjust or turn his head. He still looks just as withered. Like an orphan boy with his head sash and torn clothes. A snatch of shut eye isn't going to cure him. He's going to need something stronger down the road.

Zack really doesn't want to wake him yet, but. He gets close, leaning over, hand braced on arm rest. He can hear his steady breathing, feel his radiant heat, and even smell him, the sweat stuck deep down in his threads. Maybe he’s gone feverish again. He puts his free hand to Cloud's forehead. It's warm but not hot. He lingers longer than necessary, notes his soft features and smooth skin and long lashes; the curve of his cheekbone, the line of his jaw.

"How is he?"

Cid's packing up a haggard brown pack thrown onto the bed.

"He's fine," Zack answers, removing the hand.

"Good. Wake him. We're outta here in five."

 

 

They have to borrow a pair of sandals from Cid for Cloud. After they took off his stylish lady boots in the inn's room the night before, his leg and foot were too swollen and tender to put them back on again. Neither Zack nor Cloud mourned the loss of the article. The woman that had watched their coming from the balcony gave Zack a slab of cheese, a loaf of bread and a thermos of coffee for them anyway.

All things considered, they haven't made out too badly. Cloud is being characteristically quiet, their stomachs are full, and Zack isn't feeling so worn out thanks to the warm drink and the decent night’s rest. He even has cigarettes and a lighter and cell phone signal. The thing wasn't dead after all. If it holds out to Midgar they might be able to contact Kunsel.

Cid said he'd have them to the badlands surrounding Midgar by sundown or later that evening. That's a long jaunt. About a whole day, he warned them. They'd have to hoof it to the city though. He said he doesn't have good relations there.

They leave the inn and small town to hunker down in Cid’s truck bed, as wide as a house (he was correct), and wait the trip out. The truck bounces along, huge tires barreling over small rocks and boulders, fording streams and swamp land alike. They're far up off the ground, watching the scenery spin by indifferently.

The machine is a beast. Peeled yellow paint defines the unusually tiny cab, black smoke pours from a thick exhaust pipe. The rest of it is truck bed steel guarded on either side and ribbed on the floor. A skeletal frame built for canvas (but missing the canvas) stretches over them where they sit. Two rocket casings positioned behind the cab stick out far beyond this skeletal frame's span.

Zack sways and bumps. Cloud does the same. They take great care in keeping his leg suspended, but he winces all the same.

The hours stack up. Hours without words passing between them.

It's not unwelcome. They each get to collect their thoughts respectively. For Zack, that might take a few revisits. He's not sure how he feels about crashing twice. Should he be feeling indestructible (he _did_ come through with little to no injuries)... or like the unluckiest bum alive?

Cloud lost an eye and broke a leg. You could chalk that up to his fragile makeup. Maybe he just needs to drink more milk. And to stop worrying. He's worrying right now. Look at him.

If this works, Zack’s plan, his resolution, then he'll teach him not to be so uptight. He’ll teach him to relax and unwind. He’ll teach him to spit and punch. He’ll teach him right from wrong.

At length, as the light drains low, they start seeing less and less of trees and green things. The grade smooths and becomes flat. The land turns brown and dusty. There might still be living things out there but they're mostly twisted and more like undead hands reaching up from underneath than trees. It doesn't reassure good thoughts. It doesn't breed good mind sets.

The light is nearly gone by the time Cid stops the truck and cuts the engine. He hangs out his door and yells back to them, giving a thumbs up. They get the idea and hop down. Zack has to half catch, half pull Cloud down from the height, and he looks ruffled and indignant as a result.

To Zack's surprise, Cid has jumped down from the rig as well and is waiting for them around the front, lit by glaring headlights. He's probably sober by now. He looks a little younger even in the harsh yellow-white, maybe in his mid-thirties. A wire of a man.

"Got something here," he mumbles. He doesn't give Zack the chance to dispute, he simply slaps a small something into his palm. "What I got left over."

It's a plastic card. In large font, printed across the face: 200 gil.

Zack is incredulous. "You don't need—"

Cid barks a laugh. "Hey, hey. I figure, I've got a warm bed to go home to. I figure, I've got a truck, and a business, and a woman. You know? I figure, at the end of the night, I'm not wondering if I'll be alive the next morning."

"Thank you,” Cloud says first.

"Yeah, thanks." Zack repeats, meaning it.

"Don't spend it all in one place," Cid jokes, and he laughs once more.

They step well back from the truck as he fires it up.

He's off their radar in minutes, rumbling back in the direction they came.

"I like him better than the last one," Zack has to say.

Cloud shakes his head.

The last daylight is gone. It's immediately black.

"Whoa."

Zack turns to follow Cloud's voice.

It's Midgar in the distance. The city looks sick.

"And we're going there," Zack confirms.

"Yeah, thanks," Cloud groans.

Zack tries not to feel bad about that and fails.

He takes a good breath in, shoulders back, spine straight, and exhales.

"Let's go then," he says.

 

 

It becomes steadily brighter as they gain on Midgar. The city is quite large. A plate covering a hidden city underneath. She's green all around because of towers tipped with streaming mako. All the excess just shoots off into the atmosphere like a mist, like breath mint spray. Many think they're poisoning the air, killing the planet, and it's hard not to think they're doing something wrong, given the state of the sucked dry land around them.

If they had to storm the city, they'd be spotted miles off. There's literally nothing to hide behind in the badlands. A few red boulders maybe, but mostly just flatness, dryness, and destitution.

Zack's thankful it's night. They might be gaining sure enough, but it's still slow going. He carries Cloud on his back a distance. He's starting to get tired.

"Can we stop?" It's Cloud's inquiry.

"Sure," Zack answers. It’ll give him the chance to rest and light a cigarette.

He crouches with his partner and watches the city. There's definitely a fanfare going on out there. Airships float closely by, high up near the upper plates and tower. Flood lights spin and turn, shining off the floating things above. Distantly you can hear music, a crowd. Something insanely upbeat. The random firework pops and fades.

"What are we doing? Exactly."

Zack takes a drag and puffs out through his nose. Two jets sail and fade. "We'll get up there, we'll enter the city. Have to stay in the slums though, for now. Get a room, stay low."

"You said something about a friend?"

"Yeah. That’s Kunsel. He might be able to help us."

Cloud is regarding his leg now, distracted. He's holding it with both hands, just steady there, not feeling or moving, like he's stopping it from trying to get away, or getting worse.

"Does it hurt much?" Zack would use the restore again, but it's sketchy where they are, so close to the city. With no cover, the glow from the thing might attract attention. What kind of attention is up for grabs, but _any_ attention at this point certainly isn't welcome.

"No, it's alright," Cloud answers.

Zack's sure as shit that's a lie.

A particularly loud firework booms.

They, him and Cid, set the bone hours ago to Cloud's bitten back screams. They needed two people to do it. Used the wood left over from their busted airship to make a splint, and rope to tie and secure it. He can't really muck it up anymore than it already is, but it's not exactly getting the treatment it needs. It should be looked at and he should be properly medicated.

Two and a half hours later, by Zack's internal clock, they reach the city.

The entrance from ground level isn't anything fancy. Nothing grand or welcoming, just an industrial sized glass sliding door striped with hazard paint, red on white. There's a number 06 above the door in yellow. They don't guard or watch these doors anymore.

It used to be different years ago. You had to have a valid I.D. and papers. You had to prove your excellence. The security cameras are still hanging around, pointed down at them as they approach. Their eyes are long dead and glassy, but unblinking just the same.

Today, all you have to do is walk in.

The fanfare and music has died to a minor fizzle in the air. No one disrupts their going. People are moving around sure enough, but they're milling about trash can fires. Nearly all of them wear white surgical masks. They're picking at bits of broken machinery, burning plastic housings, thin metal casings. They stand in groups, talking, and then break away. Some smoke, or drink, or watch them go, but they don't interject. 

It's all the more pleasing for Zack. 

Once they're through the doors to Midgar's under city, the slums, they're immediately engulfed in a living human smell and smoke, and miscellaneous fumes (electrical and otherwise). Next, they're blocked in by the heaps of junk and refuse, and blinded by darkness. It's worse in here than outside the city. It's always midnight in Midgar.

They'll have to go a ways in to get to any sort of habitation, with any sort of resources. The outskirts are just leftover bits and pieces of the city. Old cars, robots, machines. He sees ovens, refrigerators, and the like. Small pockets of people set up camp along the way, but for the most part it's lonely going. They pass a giant pillar fenced off. It's one of the many used to suspend the city above. People don't live around these usually. They don't like to be reminded.

He's getting tired again when they come across a huddle of vehicles. A few busses and dump trucks circled around each other. A small sedan and a jeep sit in the center of this crude circle. Something stripped of its body work rests closest to them. Cables and wires run across the ground, winding into vehicles and off to go somewhere else, even above. Electricity snaps and fizzles. There are rubbed raw tires, stacked boxes, a mostly wooden shack. Signs and lights hang everywhere (a mess of them: Christmas lights, naked bulbs, candles).

It's its own little town. There's a supply shop, a smoke shop (curiously), an inn (that's the bus), and the jeep. Across the jeep's green door is a green and white cross. It's not very well done. Very abstract. Medical. He heads here first, dragging Cloud along with him.

It's the longest three-legged race Zack’s ever been in.

As they approach, he realizes there’s an old man sitting on the hood of the jeep. White Christmas lights are strung around him in a net, hanging from low pipes above. They wink, blink, and pulse. The man is calm, unmoving. He doesn't greet them.

Zack struggles up. There’s a crate for Cloud to rest on.

"Excuse me," Zack starts.

 

 

He has money left for a night’s stay.

He watches Cloud take the potion. It's a small dose, no bigger than a shot of alcohol.

"How do you feel?"

"It tastes awful." Cloud pulls a face.

"They need a cherry," Zack says lamely.

As a result, Cloud’s leaning more on his bad leg now, and he seems more relaxed and smoothed out. They make it to the bus and get a room. Well, bench. Two benches for 20 gil a night. Inside the bus, sleeping areas are segregated by hanging sheets, interior lit by rainbow strands of more Christmas cheer. Faint crackling music plays, the words hard to make out, but it's calm, edging towards nice. It is, however, not the most private of places.

He gets Cloud to his bench and then takes his own. He leaves the satchel behind.

Soon he finds himself alone and staring up at the rusted-out ceiling of a bus, his sword next to him on the bench, almost underneath him. He had to pull his knees in to even begin to fit on the bench seat. He’s too damn tall for everything.

It is nice enough. Cozy, he guesses. It's too quiet for him though, save for that electrical snap and hum, and the radio, but that's methodical and intermittent. It’s something to train on, fall asleep to, and he is absolutely spent after their walk. He still can’t help thinking, worrying.

They're in Midgar either way.

Time for things to get hairy.

 

 

_Status: SOLDIER 1st Class - Location: Midgar (Shinra Tower)_

He was informed as of yesterday, at 14:00 hours, that one of the main targets has accessed the company website. Two pages were viewed for less than a minute each. The window was small. It was brief, but it was telling. It's very easy to say that they're still alive.

Sephiroth is delighted. Delighted by the chance of another meeting. An epic end. He has some wants, and one of those is a good death. Another is revenge. They couldn't catch him on the continent, but they'll get him now. He planned for this.

All Shinra administered devices have tracking units built in. As of five minutes ago he was informed that his unit picked up the target's tracker, and it's somewhere close by. It could even be headed to the city. It could be that someone found it and only wants to seek fortune, women, or a good time, but, more likely, it's his target, it’s his little lost kitten.

He won’t deploy a unit.

He’ll wait and go alone.

A little sport is what he really needs.

 

 

_Status: Ex-SOLDIER 3rd Class - Location: Midgar slums (sector 06)_

He's pretty sure he's dreaming.

There's the beach out there, a step away. The sand is white, so white, it's hard to look at straight on. The sky above, the big blue, it’s just that—it goes on and ever on. White clouds move lazily this way and that. The ocean below is calm, rolling in, licking, lapping. The wind brings with it the smells of salt, seaweed. All good things. Things from home, from better times.

Cloud is sitting by the tide, feet deep in the warm sand. His hair is sun fire, blazing. He wears summer clothes. He looks so small, so distant, unreal and hyper-real. Zack has to blink and cover his eyes as he approaches. He immediately wishes he hadn't. The image changes. It's still Cloud, but the Cloud as he was back on the continent. Back when he found him in the snow. The helmet's there, the uniform.

Cloud turns as he comes up to him. Zack's chest tightens painfully. The visor is broken as it was, bloody as it was. Cloud reaches out a hand, his glove smoking, glistening. It's soaked in blood. It drips with it. He’s reaching to take his hand. He’s wanting him to join him.

The sand beneath is so white it could be snow.

The blood is so red it could be real.

 

 

The radio is playing much louder when he jumps to. Loud enough to make out words. That must be some kind of morning alarm the innkeeper uses.

He gets both feet on the floor and stretches. He could brush the ceiling if he tried. He yawns and cracks his neck. He reaches for his broadsword.

It's a man singing on the radio. A sad sort of tune.

_I've lost all ambition for worldly acclaim_  
_I just want to be the one you love_

He waits to listen, curious, caught.

_And with your admission that you feel the same_  
_I'll have reached the goal I'm dreaming of, believe me_

It's making his chest tighten in that same painful way.

He likes dreams, for the most part. If only because you get to wake up from them in the end. Here, in reality, he's still fighting for his life, and the life of another. He's still on the run, beaten and bloody, scrambling for a plan, scrambling for relief. He's still stuck like a netted thing, waiting for the axe to drop.

The bench, just one seat over, where Cloud sleeps, is silent. The sheet hangs there quietly, hiding anything from view. Christmas lights glow warmly. Innocent. Completely ignorant.

He pulls the sheet back.

 

 

"Did my friend leave? Did you see him leave?"

"What? Huh?"

Zack throttles the man even behind the counter, even beyond the bars that are supposed to protect him, he throttles him. He has to reach and contort through the gaps, wedge through the steel, but his grip is deadly, angry, and only growing angrier.

"Did my friend _leave_?" he asks again.

"Uhh, yeah, yeah. Take it easy,” the man answers.

Zack's grip lessens. An ache is starting to form in his forearm.

"He left with another guy."

"Another guy?" Zack shakes him. His head bangs into the bars.

"Uh, _ow_ , geez. A guy in black, long hair. He—he—"

Zack lets him go, but not after pulling him into the safety bars one last time.

It's not nice, but he isn't feeling very nice.

Sephiroth.

Sephiroth has Cloud.

"Hey, hey! He said—"

Zack pauses.

"That you, uh, you might want to throw away your phone."

Zack scowls.

"And... you’ll know where to find him."

Of course he does.

Cloud has the satchel, but he doesn't have the money or the cigarettes.

And thank the powers that be for that.


	11. Chapter 11

_Status: Infantry Cadet - Location: Shinra Tower (SOLDIER dorms)_

Lights in the distance flicker off and on, a steady strobe. Midgar is out there, below—a city of blinking, drinking, swaying and darkness, and so much despair. She's not sleeping, but she is entirely, maybe blissfully, unaware of the situation unfolding above her head.

The conversation has been slow and one-sided. Cloud hasn't given his captor much and his captor has carried on by himself in place of the inevitable silence.

"I was expecting to have to subdue you. Imagine my delight at not having to. That might have spoiled our relationship. Besides, seems he's done a fair enough job at keeping you... loyal. Always been easy to love, that one." Sephiroth’s eyebrow rises. One singular and deadly beautiful thing. A silver edge, a sharp blade. He is still, hands down, the tallest man Cloud has ever seen, and edging into the cruelest. "You haven't forgotten what I told you about him?"

"No," Cloud grits. No matter how hard he tries.

"He's gone bad, our Zack. And how good he was. Did he tell you about his record? About the war? He was a machine. Unstoppable." Sephiroth looks and sounds rather bored with it all despite. He's sitting in a chair (halfway a throne), cross ways, playing the part of the predator and villain very well. He lolls his head back as he speaks, a great fall of hair spilling over the armrest and narrowly sweeping the floor. It's a white-gold curtain.

Cloud shifts, wincing. He’s been chewing at his lips and the inside of his cheeks. He's nervous, to say the least, but he's also hurting. His leg, and the means Sephiroth brought him here (dragged by two masked soldiers), haven’t done much for his state. He's borderline out of it, hanging on by a whim.

"He was really very proud of it. Killed many a man and completed many a mission. Stormed beaches and keeps." Sephiroth sits upright now, hair a little wild. "He was such a good boy. Used to listen so well." It's all said in that vacant tone, that canned drone.

It could just be the wind in Cloud's head masking it, muting it, but Sephiroth has no inflection. That hollow whoosh is surely growing with his unease. It must be his very life draining away. He's feeling similarly hollow. He’s feeling ready to drop.

"Did he tell you about us?"

Cloud hesitates, but answers, "No."

"You and I have a secret then," Sephiroth explains.

Cloud shifts again. He's sitting on a bed, a big navy blue bed. It's made up and folded nice. It smells clean and crisp beneath him, and unused. Thick black bedposts meet with the high ceiling. He's at the very edge of the yielding mattress, holding his busted leg and trying not to whine or cry or yell out for Zack, for some _help_ , for just a little bit of _help, please_.

The room is dimly lit. It's not easy to tell how big it is, or even if they're alone. The distance between him and the door to the outside (and freedom, and Zack) is discouraging and hidden. He could crawl if he tried, and he would, but he would also bet that he wouldn't get very far.

Sephiroth stands.

Cloud is startled out of his thoughts by the leather creak and stretch.

"You're very small. And very young. I know why he likes you,” Sephiroth admits. He crosses the room to regard him, to fully invade his space.

He can see Sephiroth’s face more clearly now, his white mask, so much like his vacant tone. A gloved hand lifts his chin up, right into two green eyes, and now he has no choice but to look at him. He can't look away. He finds his pain is easing, dropping away. He finds his heart is racing, his jaw is slackening. He finds he can't remember why he ever wanted to leave.

"You're fragile. Easy to sway." Sephiroth’s breath is cool against his face. "And innocent." It smells of green tea and something sweet, something divine. "But..." He drops his hand.

Cloud's head remains as it was left for a moment.

"Do you see? Can't you? What he's doing to you?"

Cloud blinks and swallows, that sweet haze melting, and with it, the numbed pain and stalled terror. His pulse keeps fast, mixing with the wind's whoosh in his head. It's terribly loud now.

"He's killing you." Sephiroth crouches. He's looking upon him almost kindly. There could be pity there, that could be real emotion. "You've lost your eye." He reaches a hand to touch.

Cloud flinches away.

"You've lost your leg." He reaches there.

Cloud pulls back, outright groaning into the General's face.

"But… what has _he_ lost?"

City lights spin and blind through the windows behind him, silhouetting, tattooing.

" _Me_ ," Cloud answers. "His life, his parents... his _honour_."

Both Sephiroth’s eyebrows rise. He isn’t exactly shocked, bowled over, or astonished, but he certainly didn’t seem to be expecting the resistance so soon (or at all). He rises, looking down on him again. His face is shaded, dark, dismal. What could be there could only be bad.

"Wrong," he clarifies. "His parents abandoned him years ago. He doesn't even know their names. How could he? Fair is a Shinra name. He gave up his life and his honour when he defied me. When he defected. When he decided he knew best."

"You tried to kill him!"

"Look at what he's done to you..." Sephiroth sighs, and paces away, back towards the window.

Cloud's heart pounds on. If only he could run. If only he could… “He said— _Zack said_ —you went crazy. You _sound_ crazy. I don’t need to know anymore. I used to look up to you.” He's holding in tears. He can't let them go even if he wanted to. He’s broken. "But you're _nuts_ ," he finishes, exhausted.

Sephiroth is in shadow, his back turned. His outline is stark and always shifting longer and then thinner against the lights wheeling outside. "Is mad wanting what you want? Is mad wanting what’s rightly yours?"

"I don't—” But, Cloud has grown too tired to stand his ground.

Sephiroth returns to look down on him from above. It must be something he's so used to, something he enjoys. He’s been poking and prodding since Cloud was dropped off here, like some kind of big cat playing with its dinner. Cloud can’t help but feel hunted. And doomed.

"I'm going to kill you." And his voice is so calm and cool.

Now Cloud has confirmation.

Sephiroth again crouches, his leathers creaking, his nose within bumping distance, his face in full frame. That gloved hand reaches out to brush Cloud’s cheek. "I promise that," he soothes. The hand quickly moves to squeeze Cloud's bad leg at the knee, his sweet breath haunting, fingers clamping, digging. "But... I’ll give him a chance to win you," he hisses.

Cloud knows true fear, terror, pain, and now the promise of more. He tries to swallow it all, to be untouched and steely, to give the bastard nothing to eat up in return, but he only whimpers, pitiful, and doubles over. He is allowed to disengage from his eyes, those green eyes, so hungry for his anguish. He has to fight off the stinging rush of tears that will never come.

Sephiroth says, through the choking miasma, “He still has to prove his worth.”

 

 

It's been forty-five minutes.

Forty-five long minutes.

He knows this because Sephiroth knows this. He isn't letting him forget. He's checking the clock regularly, shooting that vacant and bored voice across the cavernous room from his throne, and right to Cloud's ears and his doubts. He’s doing it to stress how little drive and control and love Zack really has. He’s doing it to drive that pain home.

He knows this is Sephiroth's room. And, if he really wants to listen to him, he knows this is the very same room he shared with Zack too. And, boy, that hurts some. Even if he doesn’t want to believe it (even if he knows better), it’s all the more doubt and grief for his ultimate tally.

Sephiroth starts to hum. It's a catchy tune, uplifting, but it's not doing its job very well.

Cloud shifts on the bed. He leans a little more off his leg, giving his back a break too. This only seems to give Sephiroth an idea though, to Cloud's dismay, because he quits his humming and gets up from his seat. He drifts over, every step long, every foot fall a metallic beat, every foot fall the stretch of leather and the shift of hair. He arrives and sits right next to him, that hair swishing and falling over his far shoulder and out of the way. The bed gives him plenty of room and sags little. Cloud would retreat to put just that much more space between them, but he doesn't. He can’t. He locks his eye with Sephiroth’s, and by then, it's too late. It’s all over.

"You are very attractive, Cloud."

He listens intently. He thinks he might have smiled too, because now the bad man's smiling, that awful smile, and coming closer, stealing up that precious empty space. It's terrifying, and there's not a damn thing Cloud can do about it. He can’t do anything as hot lips press to his throat. He can’t move. Not an inch. Not a twitch. He hardly takes a breath. He only notes how warm and secretly appealing the sensation is, and how those lips hide a warmer tongue that flicks out and now starts to run along his collarbone to just under his ear, leaving a cooling trail.

Cloud shivers.

Sephiroth pushes him fully onto the bed, and Cloud goes, letting the soft mattress receive him. It's as if he's watching from a great height anyway. From somewhere way off and safe. This isn't happening to him, no, this is just a movie. A fantasy. A bad dream. A nightmare.

"I wonder..." Sephiroth says, "if you would have been mine in another lifetime."

Cloud wants desperately to say _no, not even then_ , but he just lies there, single eye unblinking.

That mouth again, those lips, that tongue. Sephiroth’s licking over his chin, his cheeks, tasting him, all of him. He bites at his ear lobes, his throat, and sucks too, leaving bruises in the shape of his deceit. Even after he's gone, even after Cloud's oh-so wanted escape, even after that, if it is to happen, he will have the marks Sephiroth’s branding on him.

Now he's stopped, and he’s looking into his face. There's nothing wrong with that, if it wasn't such a curious look. If Sephiroth wasn’t getting another idea and reaching for the bandage around Cloud’s head, where reality ends and Cloud’s untimely insanity begins.

Cloud’s stomach turns. His weak fists clench.

Sephiroth's fingers, thin and lovely, snake underneath the white threads, and they pull. The protesting stretch is loud inside Cloud’s ears and packed head, mimicking the grind of his teeth, putting pressure and pain on his skull. _No, don't, don’t_ , he hears his watery voice plead.

"Oh?" But, Sephiroth tugs the harder.

And the bandage, the barrier, tears free.

 

 

Cloud is finding his breathing hard to control. He’s finding even keeping his lone eye open a struggle. If he were able, if he had full use of his arms and his legs, he'd be kicking and thrashing and giving Sephiroth a hell of a time, but as it is, he can only lie there and take it.

Sephiroth is ghosting, taunting, but he never stays long.

Cloud's lips part on a particularly sharp bite at his nape. He groans, beaten.

"Are you in much pain?" It's asked suddenly and out of character.

He has only moments to process before he's being outright kissed and the inquiry is made invalid. The world is at odds with him. He's upside down and inside out. The room is too bright and then too dark. It's just the flashing from outside, the spotlights, but they're like solid beams bleaching everything they touch, and then they’re gone. He can't breathe. He can't move.

It’s warmth. A friendly spreading starts in his left thumb, curiously, and fans out from there, building clout as it goes. He can feel it tingling in his limbs, working up his spine, tickling his throat (working out another groan), easing his turned stomach, quieting his head, and soothing. The warmth turned hot, pools at last, stirring his loins. He doesn’t catch the gasp.

No longer dim and blinking, the room is bathed in emerald green. A green as green as free fields; as green as tree leaves and waxy needles; as green as the stop lights in town; as green as swamps and ponds he's never seen. It's as green as those two terrible eyes.

He's healing him, and it's everything he's been wanting for.

Relief. Salvation. Absolution.

"One hour," Sephiroth reminds, breaking the spell. "I want you at your best," he confides, and climbs off Cloud. "Besides... You're boring me."

Cloud lifts himself upright after a testing second. He's almost feeling more himself, more balanced. He checks his leg. It moves with ease. Not a hint of the pain before. So he starts dismantling the splint. It comes undone simply. He's not aware of much else, just Sephiroth, and jumping, throwing a fist, a leg, an elbow. He’s not aware of losing or missing, just about fighting back, biting, chewing, spitting, wriggling, _killing, killing, killing_. Some fists do hit, some don't.

He's deflected overall and thrown onto his belly, Sephiroth's full weight crushing down from above. "Oh yes, I like this better," he purrs.

Cloud coughs once and resists, trying to lift up.

"One hour, seven," Sephiroth says, pushing down, forcing out all the air from Cloud's lungs. "We can play a game while Zack is away." He lets off and leaves the bed entirely.

Cloud coughs and gasps, crawling towards the headboard.

Sephiroth returns with an item. 

Cloud has reached the pillows and finally stops there to look back.

Sephiroth presents him with a black-handled dagger. He tells him, "If you can kill me, you win. You get to go free." He leaves the weapon on the bed spread, open for business. 

Cloud springs onto it, grabbing it up in both hands. Faster than a shot, faster than anything Sephiroth would give him credit for, he's rolling off the bed and going for his target. But. He can't. He can't even take another step. He'd sooner stab himself.

Sephiroth laughs.

"I hate you," Cloud bites. He rears his arm up, dagger held at the pinnacle of his reach. "I’ll kill you!" he screams, but that’s it. The blade drops useless, _ting ting_ , to the floor.

Sephiroth's laughter mingles with the wind again rushing in his head.

 

 

_Status: Ex-SOLDIER 3rd Class - Location: Midgar train (#4334)_

Zack heads to the train station, on his way to the upper plates, and upper class Midgar, sooner than he would like, but he hasn't a choice. Cloud's been gone for too long now. Thirty seconds would be too long. He knows deep down, from muscle memory, and his piled up troubles and history, that he doesn't have long to locate and liberate Cloud.

It's not the locating that's the problem though, it's the getting there, to Shinra Tower. It's also the not-getting-shot-by-guards thing, and not letting his emotions get the best of him too. Because, oh, it is so easy to want to go there, but he mustn't.

He takes a seat on the train after boarding (heavily, spine thumping hard metal) and starts to think. Really think. Goes into a trance and plays out the motions, the scenes, and the possibles and the could-bes. The train toots and pulls away from the station.

Sephiroth could have killed him already. Or he might be waiting to do it right in front of him. He could be guarding the tower, ready to shoot him down. He might not even get off this train. That’s not going to stop him. He's not going to give in. It can try all it wants, devious doubt, but he's got better things to do. If he's learned anything from these last few days... it's not to give in. If he's pulled anything from his SOLDIER training it's to do what must be done in the face of whatever comes. He's too damn stubborn besides. And too damn stupid.

The map of train routes hangs just over his shoulder. He turns and has a look, getting an idea of an estimated time of arrival. He hasn’t often visited the slums. He never had a reason to back then, so he’s not familiar with its workings and procedures. It's looking good, as far as it can, from what he can tell. He'll stay on this train all the way to the surface plates and make his way from there to Shinra Tower. At that point though, standing alone, anything could happen.

He's near the back, far from anyone, if his car wasn’t empty. He had to stow his sword in a compartment at the front of the train. Some strict _no sharp objects/weapons on public transit_ thing. He feels naked without the sword, the protection, and the absence wide. Not to mention the space Cloud should be filling. His charm. His totem.

The train toots again, streaming by another station. It's a _flash flash flash_ of red and yellow across Zack's face as it passes. Four more of these and then it's his stop. And possible death. And disappointment. And terror. And lies. And cold, cold eyes.

No smoking signs plaster the train's innards, but he's alone.

He lights up and puffs away.

It helps little.

 

 

The final station is in view, the train is slowing. He retrieves his sword and makes out. He's heading for fame, fortune, and most certainly the end.

"Zack?"

His nerves prickle. He turns to the voice, sword at the ready.

"Zack!"

Kunsel hurries across the station floor, itself a spectacle of mirrors and hanging chandeliers. "You’re alive! Where the hell have you been? I called your mom. She didn't know where you were. She was worried, actually. You haven't sent—"

"I need your help," Zack interrupts, but quickly pauses. "My mom?"

"Yeah," Kunsel says. "We've got everyone's next of kin on file. I might have done some snooping, y'know. I know some people. And I was worried."

"How is she? When did you talk to her?"

"Like, a couple weeks ago, or something. Sounded fine. Worried, but fine."

"A couple weeks ago..." Zack repeats quietly.

"Yup. Your dad threw out his back again. She sure likes talking. I see where you get it from. And your optimism. She said you were probably fine. I didn’t… explain a lot."

If this were any other time maybe, he'd let himself have the moment, but he doesn't. He grabs Kunsel by the shoulder and moves him aside. Spotting a bathroom sign, he pulls him there, bringing him along inside. Zack takes a moment, making sure the stalls are empty first.

And then, "I need your help," he whispers.

"What's up, Zack?"

"Short story: they're out to get me."

"Who? Why?"

"That's not important. Really. Just yet. Shinra has… a friend of mine, and if I don't get to Shinra Tower as soon as I can, they'll kill him. If they haven’t already. This is serious."

"What? Dude. Whoa."

Kunsel’s wearing his 2nd Class uniform, dressed to the nines. It looks good on him, fitting. He couldn’t look more like every stinging memory Zack will always carry of his aspirations.

Zack makes himself, painful as it might be, repeat himself.

"So, who has Cloud?" And Kunsel still scratches his head.

" _Sephiroth_ ,” Zack sighs.

"No way."

"Yes, way."

Kunsel paces. "And you want to go to _the tower_? Now? You know they never really worry about that place, but because of your circumstance—you know, being dead and all—they've ramped it up for the ceremony. Speaking of, I wrote a speech and everything... If you go there, you're asking for it. They'll shoot first and ask questions later. They might even forget to ask questions. Because you’re _dead_. They'll sweep you away, like it never happened."

"That's why I need your help."

Kunsel's face twists, but he shrugs. "Gonna get me killed."

"Thank you." Zack all out hugs him, repeating his thanks.

"Yeah, yeah," Kunsel groans.


	12. Chapter 12

_Status: Ex-SOLDIER 3rd Class - Location: Midgar, Sector 1 train station_

He explains what he can to Kunsel.

They make their way from the train station, moving on to Sector 0 and Shinra Headquarters. It’s a long dribble of information. They’re hugging buildings and going into back alleys as he whispers. They come to people here and there, Shinra employees and enforcement going about their business, but no one moves to stop them or looks for too long.

Midgar is thankful for its distraction.

His friend is all too willing to listen to his trauma. He takes it in, wincing here, shaking his head there. He is effectively punctuating words of surprise and all around being the standard for sympathetic ears. And how comforting and cathartic dumping the weight on another is, so Zack is relaxing some, letting his shoulders sag. He confides, going heavy on Sephiroth, but light on the why. And, he doesn’t realize it yet, but he’s allowing himself to be led.

They’d always gotten along well, him and Kunsel. Same classes together, similar tastes. They sparred several times early on in the exam days, just two kids working towards a mirrored goal. Not a care in the world otherwise.

Kunsel is a higher rank now, and that gets Zack a little bit. A nice twinge, right there. He’d be 2nd Class now too, knows it to be true. Would be knocking at the door of his boyhood dream now withered and ash. Not knocking boots with death and straining to stay true.

They come to the end of another alley, dark, warm and wet. The buildings around them sweat, drip and loom. People’s voices echo oddly. Machinery hums and breathes. This is the last street to cross before the long walk up to the many stairs and the doom beyond.

Kunsel looks left to right. Street lamps sit at either far end of the crossing, gleaming yellow, illuminating a sort of mist in the air. An A/C unit distantly rattles.

He steps out.

Zack follows.

 

 

Kunsel strides down a sterile white hallway.

The firm click-click of boots. It's a dead-beat tune and echoes heavily. Curving around the bend ahead the halls seem to stretch on for days. This building is convex and Shinra motifs glare off of everything. Banners, floors, doors, and even frosted glass windows. Nobody is around but every light glows regardless. Security cameras pan on docilely. No students or personnel, and only the shadow of a few guards. Unlike what Kunsel had been warning him of, they’re as good as alone. 

And that rings odd.

The elevators for the upper floors (where they need to go, where Cloud is) center facing sullen grey coast and can only be accessed after a long walk. If it were any other day they wouldn't have gotten to the lobby or reception, first floor. It would have gone like guns in their faces, excessive lightning materia demonstrations, and handcuffs.

But it's not any other day, it's Zack's memorial day. And everyone looks good at a parade.

Kunsel steps ahead to enter a passcode into an outside keypad as they come to the elevators. Zack looks over the hallway they’ve come down. No movement. He half expects to see a bit of trash caught by the wind, twirling. For it to drag along, lazily, and to finally shoot off, dust settling in its delicate wake.

_Getting tired._

The doors spread open and they enter. The SOLDIER dorm button, 48, is pressed. It lights up red. Intensely red. And so they stand there, side by side, statuesque, somewhere video on a small screen in a dim room playing the moment back. They haven't spoken since reaching headquarters. Not even a _be quiet_ , or a _this way_.

And that rings odd.

Zack reaches for the hilt of his sword. It's cool and calculated, contemplative. Not feeling any stress yet, still fresh as a daisy. The floor numbers cycle. Kunsel carries a high caliber handgun at his belt. He prefers a different touch, always has. His close quarters is pretty good too, and that will make him sweat.

He’s inspecting his knuckles.

Zack could let go and let whatever's going to happen happen. He could. It's an option. It might be all in his head anyway, paranoia a symptom of his harrowing story, ordeal, history, reality. But _opposition_ comes knocking first, and then the desire to fight. And to win, and to give them hell while doing it. And to maybe die, heroic. So. Shit. Notes of a frosty warehouse past. He makes that choice and starts drawing his sword.

He ducks the first punch, but the next two get him square in the ribs. They must be sore from the crash because _ouch, crack_ , they squeal a heated protest. He's stunned long enough for Kunsel to grab for his sword hand and obtain it, fully drawing the blade. He’s pulling it high above their heads now, working to wrench it free.

Zack grunts and pulls back, a straight line down, bringing it between them. It works for a moment, their horns locked, until Kunsel's grip becomes so unbearable, so crushing, that he has to relent and give him charge. He takes that charge and slams Zack backwards into the elevator's steel walls, shoulder to chest, eyes alight and wild green, a sycophantic green, a daze of green. And all wrong.

_That colour._

"Kunsel!" Zack bellows.

_That green._

The sword finally falls and is kicked into an opposite corner in their frenzy. These elevators are very near industrial size. No joke, you could fit an entire squad of men in here and still have breathing room. The walls are thick too, wire-brushed, and now dented in one spot.

They struggle on, Kunsel crushing in so close his knee is between Zack's legs, pressing desperately near to sensitive material. But Zack isn’t giving in. Oh no, even if this Kunsel is strong as an ox and he’s losing, being forced into submission, being wrenched by the arm, wrist twisted—and he could break it, it’s wanting to go, the stress building to crest, the wet crunch heralding the news, _you’re fucked_ —but he isn’t giving in.

"Stop! Kunsel! STOP."

He's not pleading so much as he is advising, like one might do before setting off an explosive, or before a dangerous trick. Because he doesn't want to hurt him.

It's still Kunsel.

Poisonous green-eyed Kunsel.

He’s bellowing again, this guttural roar. It very nearly surprises even him.

He musters his strength and Kunsel begins to fail, to strain, to be pushed back, back, back into the far wall, where the sword is getting rusty, and all either of them need do is reach.

Kunsel sneers, merely holding on, not twisting anymore.

He might be an ox, but Zack is motivated.

The elevator dings, the doors slide open, and Zack, taking that minor distraction, that cue note, darts forward, head-butting Kunsel straight and true to the face.

That satisfying give?

His nose breaking. 

That sudden spray of warmth?

His blood spraying.

Kunsel crumples.

Zack is off, into the hallway, down the corridor, gone. He’s rubbing at his face (war paint), getting the mess off, smearing it, and making a good stride. He knows this floor, and knows, for damn sure, the layout and the occupants of the room coming up.

It’s zero hour.

He braces, he assures.

He pulls the nearest fire alarm.

It goes off in stages.

 

 

_Status: Infantry Cadet - Location: Shinra Headquarters, SOLDIER dorms, Level 48_

Sephiroth's been going on, spinning stories and retelling history as he sees it, about how he had been pinned down in an overrun village in some Wutai countryside, about his days gone by, and the torment, struggle, defeat, and the death.

“We didn't have the artillery and guns, and materia. We fought more hand-to-hand, more tactically, calculated. Manpower and manpower. So much more was at risk, the idea of mortality closer.”

Cloud has the dagger in his hands. It is not something he feels he should drop or let out of his sight now. He's given up trying to stab him, to escape, so it's all he's got. He turns it this way and that. The lights outside catch it, the blade gleams gold. He’s barely listening.

"People are afraid to die."

The dagger starts to lift up and point itself towards Cloud's chest. The very tip of the blade presses into his shirt, easily splitting threads and pricking at his flesh.

It's not something he can fight. There’s no epic struggle of self versus self versus bad man. Him sweating bullets or cursing and straining against the rogue hand. No. He simply directs the knife over his heart and is ready to plunge if the thought entered his tender mind. He is assured it is his own thought, his need to end everything, and that it’s alright.

"You don't want to do that," Sephiroth chides. "Your phoenix is coming. And he,” he wags his finger, “wouldn't be too happy. Don't want to make him sad now that you're whole. You have so much to offer. You can be a soldier again. Make your late mother proud."

The dagger point dips.

Cloud takes a staggering breath.

He's spinning stories and terrorizing him.

That’s when the fire alarm goes off.

 

 

_Status: Ex-SOLDIER 3rd Class - Location: Shinra Headquarters, SOLDIER dorms, Level 48_

The horns bleat first.

It's a wailing echo throughout the entire floor, maybe even the entire building. They blare out in every nook and dark room. It's loud enough to disturb the dead, and maybe travelers in the outskirt desert surrounding the city. They’re those old-timey horns and bells not replaced because they're used so rarely.

And why? They work so well.

The second and third stages happen simultaneously.

A pre-recorded voice advises all personnel to be calm and proceed to the nearest exits. Do not stop, do not ask questions. Get out. The everyday use lights dim so red ones can come on the brighter. These signal for the exits in two diminishing lines on either side of every wall, right at ankle level, beating like a pulse, strobing by once and then drumming by again, again, again.

Even the President's panic room is beating to this rhythm. Bathroom stalls, closets, the garages, dorms, it's all bathed red. The upper crust of Shinra Tower is blushing with panic.

Zack is on auto-pilot, cruising along. He’s going to come to that door and stop and not have anything for it, nothing left. Might even stare it down for a good while, try to will it out of existence. Will the whole damn situation out of existence.

Several yards away, at the end of the hall, is the door. Sephiroth's rooms are situated by the stairs for a quick way out, the roof three or four stories up, the lifts a good back track.

The fire alarm cuts out then. The recording cuts too, dead air crackling in its place. The flashing red goes on though, to keep some of the urgency alive.

Now the reverb of an on-air mic.

"Intruder alert."

So someone _is_ out there.

Zack carries on.

"Intruder alert."

A protocol number, last known position, description, and a warning are given.

"Exercise extreme caution."

He should have listened.

But there it is, the door, and through it Zack body checks his shoulder.

One swift _slam_ and he's inside, sword first, frenzied looking around last.

Red blinks.

Before great plans can progress though, he takes the calculated risk of temporary pause. A sharp prod, little more than a pressure, prickles at his side below the rib cage. He winces out of reflex, and then begins to press forward. That pressure there rears, ignites a burning sting that spreads, and grows, and doubles, angry now, loud now, crippling.

He has to go to a knee.

The darkness shimmers, red light inside bringing distant shadows into higher relief. 

He's looking into a face.

Green eyes stare back.

The same green he’d contended with in a friend.

A shade he's growing to despise.

There’s a knife half stuck in his side.

That must explain all the fuss.

In truth, it's because Cloud's face is the face, the green eyes, and _fuck, fuck fuck_. Words don't work. His brain fails, his body. The pain is great, frantic, violent. Bring on red hot oranges and deep purples and torrents of yellows and sullen greys, and so, so much damning _white_.

Zack drops his sword, grabbing for the dagger's handle. He doubles over when it wrenches free. He’s praying for strength as he lets it drop from his hand. It clatters, skips, and slides out of view. A smear of black-red, thanks to the dimmed room, leads a Braille-like trail to its last resting place. His gasp and heavy breathing fill the room.

"A little late."

Sephiroth's white hand curls around Cloud's throat from behind. He's not gripping to kill yet, he's very gentle. Cloud twitches anyway and stumbles fully back into the body there. Sephiroth draws him in close with the other arm, he wraps it right around his middle.

An embrace.

He's looking over Cloud’s shoulder.

He's smiling.

Such a glorious voice, and a grand stature, and presence. Not to mention, those theatrics. He could have left them wanting more: an audience. Could have made a lot of people happy. Instead he's in the business of killing, and it’s a shame how good he is.

Zack is dazed, on his knees and vulnerable. His own blood now mingles on his fingers with his former friend’s, warming his cool palm, spilling down his front. It mixes and spreads; leaves him cold and fearful.

And why? Why all this? Because an old flame wants him dead? Because he dragged Cloud along and got him involved?

Because Zack being Zack, being a wannabe SOLDIER, being hardheaded, being in love, just bursts right in.

He’d hate to admit it, but his life flashes before his eyes.

One flash a long-drawn series of moments. It's like photography, and every bulb going off in your face is that moment. A new moment. A fresh wound. A slap to the face. An all-out visual gutting of meeting Cloud, lying in the snow, of a dark blue sky spotted and marked by the dots of stars, of Sephiroth, flaming sand, nosebleeds, and so much more.

He can see what he wants, a database of everything he's ever done or might do (could do, should do, _I think I can, I think I can_ ). He could hang out in the ghosts of Gongaga for the rest of eternity. Or some place new. Live out a lifetime. Marry. Relax. Work a farm. Hell, it'd only be seconds in real time. But, no. He can’t do that. He's furious. He’s downright livid.

He wants to, _needs_ to know.

Every flash, every new scene, is boiling his blood.

Why.

_Cloud with his helmet cracked in._  
_Shot in the snow._  
_Busted up on the beach._  
_Gone in the slums._

_Why, why, why._

He grits his teeth and stands up.

Sephiroth is unmoving.

"You want him to stab you again?" he asks.

Zack will have to bend down for his sword.

“Don't.”

Cloud protests in Sephiroth's arms, trying to shrug him off, pull away.

There's a shuffle of feet and fabric, and then a metal scrape.

“Don’t, don’t.”

Fingers meet leather grip. Zack's focused on lifting his broadsword.

“Don't make me do it. No, no. Don't. No!”

Another stinging prod, a gasp not his own, and a fresh flood of pain.

Cloud's green eyes, now the two (and how _is_ that?), now so close, brim with tears. They streak and roll the length of his face, meeting his chin, wetting his shirt. It’s a cycle of brimming and leaking and re-brimming and leaking, and Zack is lost in that cycle.

His fingers fall away from the grip.

"That's a shame," Sephiroth laments.

The wound is higher, having plunged through his chest and clean to the hand guard. Maybe he had been aiming for his heart, for a kill strike, but he missed do to the angle, or had a moment of control. He must have. Zack's still alive, breathing and almost carrying on. He can hardly feel anything beyond red hot agony though, so things could improve.

He doesn't remove it this round, unwittingly saving his own life. He instead lunges out, pushing by Cloud.

Metal clangs.

It wasn't meant to be, of course, because Sephiroth has his own sword. It reflects every sliver of light, every whisper and concept, sucking it in and beaming it out. The blade alone is many feet long, and so thin. It easily wards off Zack’s broadsword. All those inches project death and destruction and, most of all, evisceration. All possibilities coming to an unhappy end.

How he wields it indoors would be comical under different circumstances.

As it stands it's terrifying.

Zack consciously stalls the cower, the building fear, the blackout.

And here, at their ultimate moment together (quickly turning penultimate), all light goes out. The red bulbs fade and die, the proverbial curtain drops.

It’s then glaringly bright, and intruding voices multiply.

Zack is parried, flung back by Sephiroth.

The cavalry has arrived.

He readies for another charge, another shot at absolution, adrenaline rushing—Cloud standing off in the distance, wide-eyed—the air crackles, and then there is naught. Nothing. No black, no white. No misery, no worry. No seconds drawn out.

Void.

The moment is over.

 

 

He was right there. Sephiroth was _right_ there.

 

 

Zack’s eyes open. They split a crack at best, and then grow wider. They’re blinking rapidly now, almost seeing now. The world out there is misty, watery, but there’s a ceiling above and the floor below. He’s sure he’s on a bed, or cot, and he’s not able to move (that’s not good), but this is real, this is happening. His vision clears.

Fluorescents hang and hum above, warmly sting his eyes. The walls are smooth, plain. And there are no windows. Overall, he’s numb. Not sure if he’s restrained or paralyzed. It dawns on him when he looks to the side and there’s a steel door with a small window slat for viewing.

_Locked up._

_Bastards threw me in a holding cell._

“Fuck,” he wheezes.

A chair squeaks.

He starts, tries to look, but he can’t see behind.

Kunsel steps into view.

Across the bridge of his busted nose a bloodied bandage sits, intense bruising blooming from there outward.

“You're a piece of work.”

Zack coughs, words get jammed up in his throat.

“Don’t,” Kunsel advises, holding out a hand to stop him, “It won’t make a difference. Actually save us some time. You’re supposed to be dead. Dead men don’t speak.”

His face sours. “They don’t attack official buildings, or try to assassinate an important member of Shinra. They also don’t brainwash servicemen. They’re dead.”

He leans in, breath a light breeze. “You’re just lucky,” he’s whispering, “I can’t kill dead men. But this?” He taps his bandage. “This is coming out of your ass."

He thumbs a knife wound.

Zack cries out. 

And there, the numbness is broken.

He’s gnashing his teeth, clenching his fists.

“And your boyfriend can get fucked all day.”

Zack sneers, tries to turn away. “Don’t… Don’t you touch him,” he manages to grit.

He’s definitely restrained. As he reared up he’s stopped.

Kunsel lurches back regardless.

“All day long, Zack. All fucking day. By Sephiroth, _me_ , the guards outside.”

He comes close again to jab at the tender wound, making sure to split the stitching and cause maximum damage. Blood soaks the gauze through, drips and runs to the cot, the floor, pools, the smell of it gathering in the air. He moves on to the other wound, the tear at his side, and gives Zack’s lungs a real workout.

The walls resonate with his cries, restraints snap and creak.

He’s on the verge of relapse, darkness carressing the edges of his failing vision.

Kunsel stops. 

“He'll make those noises for me,” he promises.

He grabs Zack by the chin. He’s too fried to pull away.

“You think on that," he hisses, and allows his head to thud back.

He leaves, having to be let out by a guard.

The sudden absence drills home the state of things.

Zack pants, tormented, drained.

Here comes the raving, agonized jumble.

_Desperation’s a demon._  
_Death a blessing._  
_Nothing worth having is easy._  
_Holy Grail. Golden Fleece._  
_Don’t forget to kill them all._

At length, he closes his watering eyes.

Someone will have to come in eventually.


	13. Chapter 13

_Status: Head of Science and Research Departments, Shinra  
Location: 4th Floor Research Facility, Shinra Headquarters - reviewing Project Z_

He doesn’t often come in person to the fourth floor facilities, but when he does it’s for something unique, very important, or otherwise a complete mess. This project and this current round of testing are all of those and more, indeed.

Early mornings and late nights for Professor Hojo as of late. The full data on Project Z needs to be compiled and screened for presentation to the board a month from now. There is no time to waste. A breakthrough is coming, he can smell it. So many twists and turns are ahead, so many budding breaks and reactions and tests and curious results.

As he works now, observing behind the two-way mirror overlooking subject Z, he is breathless. The lights from inside the observation room are medical bright and the glare is spiteful. He removes his glasses, two fingers rub the bridge of his nose. Machines hum and work autonomously around him, telling him life signs are steady, respiration and heartbeat are normal. Papers print, data collects, compiles, codes, collects. Injections have been scheduled, blood work ordered. Assistants surface and disappear, dropping off important memos and results, and taking updated orders. The time is 04:00 on a Thursday, or maybe a Monday, he doesn’t know that far. His assistants do and that matters for time stamp purposes and cataloging for archives. Useful, yes, but what he knows is much more pertinent.

He knows that there are too many things keeping him here. All too many. Possible muscle spasms, brain pattern anomalies, brain embolisms, organ failures, heart rate spikes, and more, so much more. Merely disasters always primed and present. Endless, unmapped risks with Mako.

He knows Subject Z is a very responsive specimen. There are already little visible signs of the two knife wounds he arrived with. He knows he would be breaking his bonds to thrash, enraged, agonized, if he wasn’t sedated. He knows he has near unlimited resources at his disposal and a call for warfare enhancements. He knows he has little inhibition and a huge opportunity, and he also knows he’s a hasty man.

The specimen is not the first in a long line of potential successes, potential failures. He lies motionless on the minimal gurney, unaware, fully restrained, dressed in a sterile fabric gown. His head, clean shaven, is turned to the side and away from Hojo's ravenous viewing, causing his features and any possible subterranean emotions, vulnerabilities, _feelings_ , to be hidden. And Hojo does wonder about those. If ever so slightly.

_Are you afraid?_

He returns his glasses. 

_I hope so._

He looks down to check his data, his schedule. He finds a surgery docked for this afternoon, a meeting with the Director, a time-sensitive experiment needs checking in twenty minutes, and, before long, he’s going to need a meal too, so he really can’t stay. He must leave this precious potential, leave his assistants to their work and excitement. So little time to revel in one’s genius these days.

“Oh, but I can’t wait,” he affirms to the glass, breath fogging. A white smocked assistant lifts their head in silent query. They know better than to ask. It’s better to let the Professor do what it is he does. He can be particular, and reprimanding, and sometimes people don’t find their way back to work the next day. Even important people.

“Put me on for another surgery.”

“Sir,” the assistant stands fully, white gloves laden with just as white readouts.

“Prep Subject Z, before my noon appointment. As soon as possible, actually. Bring in Dr. Hanes, anesthesiologist. I can work with her. She has... interesting eyes... and doesn’t ask questions. Do _not_ contact Dr. Grimm. Never again,” he turns sharply, aiming for the exit. “I do _not_ need arguments on _ethics_ or assertive _moral standings_ , or lectures on _spiritual grievances_.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And call Vasquez.”

“Sir?”

“Ophthalmologist.”

The assistant barely hesitates, but he does.

“Yes. Yes, sir.”

  
  
 

_Status: Error - Location: Error_

You come back like a light switched on, come back to an unfamiliar ceiling and the smell of burning wax. Your hair is wet, clinging cool to your cheeks and forehead. You are under crisp, clean sheets, on a wide platform of a bed. Your clothing is new, starchy and pristine, not worn or stained, bloodied and grey. The general ambiance is warming, calming.

Smoke rises from a nearby nightstand, soft light showing the room dimly, glow reaching and receding, dancing. There is the scent of roses, or another flower, a mix, and it's heady, filling the air, weighing it down. You find it appealing, familiar, intoxicating. You find you could go back to sleep. And you might have had you not noticed it.

A hairbrush on the nightstand.

Something so innocent, and human.

So ordinary.

You know the silver hair caught in that brush belongs to a man. The man now standing at the end of the bed, having arrived like a spectre. You draw back, hitting headboard, but Sephiroth, he only smiles, candle light ghosting. He comes around to rest next to you, peeling the sheets down over your lap, now reaching for _you_ , smile fading, dizzying green eyes shimmering.

Terrified is a weak word. He makes you sick to the stomach, paralyzed. You can’t breathe or think. You're downright panicked, animal-like. You scoot away sideways, kicking your feet, but you're not fast enough, or strong enough, and you never will be fast enough, strong enough, smart enough, lucky enough.

Sephiroth catches you, eliciting a muffled cry. He pins you down, scattering pillows, pulling blankets, both your fragile wrists his to control. He extends your arms out over your chest, joints locked as if in mid squabble, something habitual. To stifle any kicking and thrashing he straddles your hips. A breath away, a heat and a pressure, he’s heavy but not unbearable. And he smells like a fresh picked bouquet.

Heady and sweet.

Familiar.

Your eyes roll.

Your head lolls.

 _Lift up_ , the spectre commands.

When you come back into yourself you're at the center of the mattress, shirt being pulled over your head, stomach flopping fully, ready to twist. But you're not fighting, no. No kicking, no clawing, no matter how great the impulse. A thundering is building, a racing, _galloping_ , in your heart, and a vibrating in your pulse, a beating away. You're climbing on and on into overload.

To your shock, you move to accommodate your tormentor. You cock your hips up to assist him in removing your briefs. You are quickly bare. You feel no breeze but your skin prickles and goosebumps. You would cry out, you would sob, plead, beg, but you aren't allowed the luxury. Your tongue will not move to make a start.

Sephiroth takes you in, paused.

 _You’re lovely_ is his revelation.

Your flesh warms, heated by a rebel blush.

Sephiroth scoffs.

_Liked that, did you?_

He takes an extended hand.

You, beyond reason, calm.

 _You'll love this_ , he assures and presses his fingers along your wrist. He begins massaging, running down the length of your arm, reaching collarbone and transferring to the other, reaching collarbone and transferring again. Soft fingers glide, coming to chest, to belly, to thighs. You hiss, and you wince; you're in a brutal heaven, unable to control the moan, the squirm, the sharp gasp. His fingers disturb a tingling, a warming, a want. It grows in your guts, the very pit, raises an all consuming wildfire.

Sephiroth rises then, revealing himself and his own nakedness. He is firm and smooth, arms and waist lean and strong. His chest is bare, built, and lower, he is full and straining. The flesh is pulled taut, ticking to a hidden heartbeat. Its colouring a deep and living thing, conflicting with his natural paleness golden in the flame. His cock is ruddy.

Ready.

Zack wakes with a start.

The room is dark. He is alone.

_(bereft, desolate, single)_

He lets himself breathe, sheen of sweat disturbed, now dripping, running to the back of his neck. If he isn’t alone all they will hear is his heaving gasps, his colourful, quiet cursing. If they have his pulse rate _beep-beep_ ing on a machine somewhere they’d hear that incessantly too, but he’s not sure he is being observed. He’s got nothing but faded images to go off of. Water colours, bleeding reds and yellows, muted shades, shapes glinting. Whether it’s been hours or days, he doesn’t know. Where he is, he doesn’t know. It’s night, it’s day

_(surgical masks, holy bright flaring pain, heat)_

and then it’s nothing, nothing, nothing. And dreams. He dreams of Cloud, of Sephiroth. Of them together, of them separately, of him and Sephiroth, playbacks of memories

_(physical courtship, sex, fucking)_

but not as Zack... as _Cloud_. A terrified then pacified Cloud. And it’s surreal. It makes his muscles tense and his stomach turn. It’s empty, and angrily so. He’d only wretch bile or dry heave into a shaking mess if he could. He has to banish the wayward thoughts, the jumble of things and backlogged fear. Squash panic and paranoia and the dream still so near.

He does.

And he catches his breath.

And the nausea passes.

_(moves on, ceases to exist, dies)_

But he’s left…

_(conscious of, to perceive)_

feeling odd.

The room around him slowly becomes perceptible although he can’t see it. Despite the blackout he gradually becomes aware of every corner, every switch and hanging light, every outlet and medical drawer. Light reflecting off glass, off the polished tile floors, off shiny doorknobs. He can see the power pulsing in electrical wires, blazing in the bulbs marching along the exterior hallway. Once he clears his head it’s like the sun rising how it all comes on. The world a skeletal outline, near a backlit blueprint, and blinking won't clear it.

Light vibrates around four guards, two nurses, a rainbow of colours bleeding and evaporating. He’s tapped in, everything lit up as jade, gold, silver, and deeper into cobalts, siennas, emeralds. Colour cues for different sources, a sort of code. An ancient code that allows him to know, even before the door handle turns, moving in a sickly cream aura, that evil

_(nefarious, perverse, vile)_

has arrived.

“Subject Z is awake, professor.”

“Excellent."

It's a voice he will remember. He is committed to, has no choice, but he also promises, to himself and to Cloud, that he won’t. Won’t forget. He never met the man, not before a few milky days ago, but he heard the rumours. Everyone inside Shinra, and many outside, know the score. Doctor? Professor? Irrelevant. His name is Hojo and he specializes in making monsters, abominations, nightmare fuel.

“Hello, doc,” Zack stammers, altogether more broken and weaker than intended.

Overhead lights come on, flickering, warming, instruments are wheeled in. Nurses, assistants, and whomever else, they proceed to set out cutlery, gauze, scissors, standing spotlights; they fire up monitors, hang IVs, unfurl splash guards. It's getting busy. 

At that moment, not a one individual having had an interaction with him, not even accidental eye contact (already beginning to feel like a ghost), a fluorescent halo outlines over him. A halo, as if it were holy, a saviour, a bearer of good news.

“So you’ll be with us through surgery then?” asks Hojo.

Zack forces a feral smile.

  
  
 

_Status: Infantry Cadet - Location: Unknown_

There’s an unfamiliar sensation and then the damp aroma of storms. He had been gone, somewhere else. _Was I sleeping, knocked out? Did I faint?_

He remembers up to the guards bursting in, their flashlights beaming like solar flares across the room, landing on both Zack and Sephiroth still facing one another in their dual, casting shadows larger than life. He remembers someone yelling (voice muffled by a riot mask), the room becoming charged, air becoming heavy and thick, the crackle of electricity. Vivid blues, blinding whites. To his torment, so clearly, he recalls Zack laid out on the floor. And now this: the sky out a circular window.

He must be on an airship. Or, as a passing thought, on his way to the afterlife. Overcast clearing, sun shining, there would be the receiving gates all white gold, and his mother waiting, open-armed, smile like dying all over again.

He’s inside a small room. A single chair, a single bed, desk, window, the door out, and a single painting hung on the wall: daisies, a group of them, growing out of desert, washed-out sky above. They are soft marigold, the faintest hints of crimson starred around their centers, as if stained then wiped clean but not well enough.

He tries the doorknob and finds it stiff, locked. He sits on the small cot after that, staring at the painting, trying to remain calm and clear and ready. He has to stay away from the recap, the further recollection and analysis of the last few days. But he can’t stop it, he knows he’s going to lose that battle. His heart aches. His head aches. His leg aches.

At length, having no desire to struggle with not wondering anymore, he stands and leans in over the desk where the daisies hang. He needs the distraction. 

He stares, considers, starts to wonder about the thing's authenticity. _Real or print?_ So many of them are nowadays. All fake, mocked up, simple imitations.

Many things were lost when the world was very near its second stone age. When coal and oil and even wood were too scarce to cook a meal. He’s a little too young to remember but there are remnants of that time everywhere, and plenty of people, sick and displaced, to remind you.

As his index finger hovers over brush strokes, about to debunk his mystery, the airship pitches and he stumbles, knocked away, attention diverted to the door swinging, and then what he, at first glance, is convinced is a lion.

“Oh!” he exclaims.

“What a friendly way to greet someone,” the lion says.

“You talk!”

The airship pitches again, they both shift.

Cloud hesitates, collects himself. “I’ve just… never seen…”

He’s red, all red, like iron dust, and maybe not a lion at all.

“It’s okay. I guess. They call me Red XIII.”

“I, uh. Cloud.”

This Red XIII sits in the doorway, like a feline or a dog would, tail swishing.

“Hello," he barks, and seems to smile, showing a jaw full of points, sharp teeth aplenty. “I was told to bring you to the cargo bay. Now.”

Cloud complies, always one to listen. His eyes fall briefly on the painting (not even swaying) as they leave the room. He might never know. Real or fake.

“Who is they?”

Red XIII looks back to him.

“Shinra.”

He leads him down a narrow corridor, deeper into the bowels of the ship. His giant paws pad heavily against the floor grates, tail held out of the way and restrained. Cloud’s shoes, leather soled, make very little noise. Or he can’t tell. The ship around them is breathing and wheezing, shooting jets of steam, hot blasts of air, and dripping condensation endlessly.

“I used to get sick on these,” he thinks aloud.

“Me too,” Red XIII adds.

They come to the cargo bay entrance and the beast sits, implying he go on ahead, by himself. Alone. Cloud gets the very real (very confusing) desire to pat his head as he passes. But, he does think to say, “Goodbye, Red.”

The animal again reveals his many teeth to say, “It's Nanaki. We’ll meet again soon.”

Cloud finds he hopes so, even if he is with Shinra, he doesn’t feel that way. Maybe he will help him. Maybe he'll get him back to Zack. _Oh, Zack. Where are you? How are you? Please be alive._ Until then he must soldier on.

He slides the large cargo doors open to reveal what is hiding beyond: the belly of the airship. Wind whips strongly inside and he can see the cargo bay hatch ajar, letting bright sky in. It’s offensively vivid. Four figures, from the looks of it, stand in relief against that blue, close enough to see out the open bay and into oblivion. One figure is gesturing at the remaining, solemn and stiff. Cloud commits and passes through the threshold, into the bay, continuing forward, dangerous territory ahead. He is spotted immediately and intercepted.

“Hello, hello, handsome.”

The two figures cross their arms as they reach him. They’re twins, exact doubles, mirrors. They both have shocking red hair, and they’re both pressed into black suits good enough to accent the presence of any persons in any substantial power. They’re standing at Cloud’s elbows now, close enough for a shove. One smiles, and this smiler is the one that greeted him. He is also now the one saying, pleasantly enough, “We’re your new bodyguards.”

Cloud winces at the statement. “I’d like my old one back,” he admits, tone oddly firm, defiant.

The smiler is thrown off, he looks to his companion. That pleases Cloud to some minute degree. It's a small thing, a stiff victory. It is, until the two remaining figures make themselves known, then all is lost. It'd be best to run, jump, fly out the cargo bay and fall to the ground, quick as a bullet, compressing, done for good, gone for good, dead, because it's Sephiroth. And another.

“Unfortunately that cannot be arranged,” the last unknown says. He is an old man, grey of hair, so much like Sephiroth’s but due to the passing of time. Their similarities carry on in just how tall and commanding he is. He hasn’t said much but Cloud knows, he can sense it, that he holds a leash, many leashes, and that makes him someone not to trifle with. “You are on your way to a debriefing. These two are to accompany you. You’re leaving now.”

“Who are you?”

“I am the Director.”

“I wasn’t aw—”

“No, you wouldn’t be. Reno. Vegas.”

The two suited twins step in to put a hand on either shoulder, affirming the old man’s words.

Cloud gets the idea.

Sephiroth, present and not, he makes no comment and little movement through all of this; expression void. He stands to the right and behind the old man. Somehow that’s worse, so much worse. It’s as if he doesn’t notice, couldn’t be bothered, or doesn't even remember.

Cloud finds himself growing hot, getting desperate, getting infuriated and less afraid in a matter of seconds. He wants, all at once, in a jarring rush, to strike him, slap him, punch him, make him lurch back, grimace, bleed. Anything.

_Everything._

“Did you kill him?” he asks instead. The old man nods towards Cloud, but he’s ignoring the old man, Cloud's looking square at Sephiroth, the statue, the wraith, the unclean. “Did you kill him!?” he screams.

Before he can dart out to exact any brand of sloppy suicidal revenge, he is restrained by the twins, thrashing and bellowing. The bodyguards, Reno and Vegas, carry him away to a waiting helicopter. They hold him down and belt him into a seat. It can’t be heard over the revved up rotors or the cargo bay doors opening, but he’s screaming on, cursing Sephiroth’s name and Shinra, cursing the day, swearing absolution, justice.

  
  
 

It takes only minutes to get to the surface.

Snow blindness is a big issue out here, pilot and co-pilot have visors down. His bodyguards sport blacked-out shades. The ice bed forever reaches to horizon, forever bleached, never melting. The light flare reflecting burns Cloud’s eyes, especially the new eye, the imposter eye, what he considers his phantom. 

The chopper sways, rocks, descending quickly but deftly. Cloud can feel himself panting (fallout from screaming) but he also feels a stillness, a brand of not new resignation. He watches as the chopper levels and a base rises sharply out of the snow’s sheet, black and angular, bunker-like. Blue and red LEDs blink from the helipad situated before it, their destination.

Once they’ve landed, Reno and Vegas unstrap him and lift him out of the helicopter. They lead him across the tarmac arm in arm, like best pals, very insistent best pals. The chill bites immediately and hungrily at his fingers and nose, even with the proximity of the two bodies there. They might both be half a foot taller than him and blocking the flurry but he’s still trembling once they get inside, safe behind blast doors. He shudders in their grip as they turn right to follow the ascending hall into the guts of NCB2. Those letters pass along the concrete walls, printed every so many feet, _restricted area_ in company.

Down a length of hall that has no one along the way, they come to a manned checkpoint. On the wall behind a guard a large poster catches Cloud’s eye. Vegas breaks from the group to speak to another waiting guard through a comm in the bulletproof glass. A badge or identification card is flashed and the guards get to work, hustling. The guard in front of the poster moves to transmit over an intercom. It’s too crackly for Cloud to understand. A chime sounds, red lights now turn green, and the outside doors open.

The poster is propaganda, war ephemera. He can see it clearly now that the guard has moved away. The part that lures his eye, the part that gets him, really sends a chill through him and his teeth clenching, hard, spitefully hard, is that’s it’s Zack. Holy shit. He's the feature on the poster, the clinch, the image, glorious and victorious. War cry frozen, sword mid swing, fire in his eyes, blood soaked, _drenched_ , exactly like he almost never got to see him and always imagined him: doing his job, living his dream, just another day at war, keeping the peace, SOLDIER.

 _He’s fighting for YOU_ reads red font along the bottom border.

He can’t stop hearing Sephiroth say: _He was a machine. Unstoppable._

His heart is already sore enough as it is, thanks. Now it’s pulp, hamburger, mulch, dust. He can feel the tears hot as they run down his cheeks but there is no pull at his features or the muscles of his face. He has no expression one way or the other. He’s tapped out, emptying.

Reno tugs him through the checkpoint, through the metal detectors.

Alarms panic shrilly all at once.

He shrugs and swings back around, tripping up Cloud.

“I have two .45s, a ten inch combat knife, brass knuckles, and a taser. My partner… a twenty-three inch katana with titanium guard, brass knuckles, a taser, and two sweet-ass butterfly knives,” he takes a breath, “let us through.”

The guards, eyes wide and bright, now alert, they wave him and Cloud and Vegas on. They shove and pull Cloud between them as they go. He stiffens and resists, for posturing’s sake.

Several yards down the hall from the checkpoint, out of general eye shot of the station and the two guards, things could have gotten hairy, messy, but they let Cloud free. 

“You can walk now,” Reno, the smiler, says. “Sorry about all that.”

He pats Cloud’s shirt sleeve smooth, and gives him that smile, and it’s an alarmingly open and genuine smile. Cloud finds himself blushing, burning up for a reason other than inhuman outrage. It’s so unexpected he has to divert his eyes. “That’s all just so we look good, you know. Keeping up appearance or whatever. Vegas knows. His idea.”

“Yup,” his twin confirms.

“He doesn’t even have a katana. The hell would he put it? The butterfly knives are true though. And, hey, you’re from Nibelheim?” Reno continues. He’s a talker. It’s an endless stream of questions, stories, and banter. Some words pass between him and his brother (they are brothers, not some twisted experiment in cloning) but mostly it’s Reno talking and everyone ignoring, and he seems fine with that. He’s probably used to it.

“I prefer something more flashy myself.”

“We’re here...” Vegas interrupts.

Reno expels a huff of air. “Oh well,” he sighs. “We’ll be waiting for you here. Don’t take too long. I’m hungry. Do you like rice? Maybe we could convince…”

The speech continues unswayed as Cloud enters the room through the plain office door. He closes the door softly behind him. The room inside is well lit, a small table and two chairs the only monuments.

“Please sit.”

It’s a voice from the past.

He doesn’t want it to be true.

“Please,” she gestures.

“How are…”

“That’s for another debriefing, I think. But I can tell you, Cloud—it’s so nice to see you, by the way—I can tell you I was brought here by Shinra and they were nice enough to give me a job.” She sits first, pulling the chair out noiselessly. Her long bare leg she crosses over her knee. “You’ve been through a lot. Now please sit down, Cloud.”

“Stop,” Cloud insists, sitting heavily, “Stop saying my name like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like it hasn’t been three years.”

Tifa’s lips twitch, subtle.

“I’m sorry.”

Cloud makes no remark.

“Let me begin. Cloud Strife, Infantry Unit H, Cadet, you’ve been through a lot,” she pauses, “And we want you to know just how lucky you are to be alive. You are the only survivor. The only Shinra representative to escape Zack Fair’s… breakdown. Shinra is deeply regretful.”

Cloud’s jaw ticks. His teeth smash and grind.

She pulls up a folder from her lap, light blue, deceptively innocuous, and pushes it towards him. It’s open, revealing the documents and photos inside. He doesn’t want to look. What they can do to you, what they can make you believe, Shinra, it’s devastating. He doesn’t want to be sucked back into it, like before. He knows he has weaknesses and he knows they will exploit them.

“They’re still looking into what was the cause, but they do know he was planning an attack on headquarters. Two targets in particular. He had considerable influence and power over you, they understand, so you’re not being charged for any crimes. As consolation, in fact, you’re being put into protective services. You will have a bodyguard at all times, and they’re promoting you too. You’ll be an officer now, Cloud. You have valuable intel. No more fighting, no more injuries. Quite rare.” She smiles at him, but it’s flat. This is not the Tifa he once knew from Nibelheim. “You’ll be housed and retrained here while operations for your return to Midgar are completed.”

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

“You know who.”

“All the information is before you.”

He looks down at the folder, the documents, the photos. Big mistake. The glossy image is shocking, and there are only more, though they’re graciously hidden. He quickly looks up and away, eyes stinging, brimming wetly. It's hard to breathe, impossible to focus, relax. The fear is rising, blooming, branching out, and soon it will be all he knows.

“Do you have any other questions?”

Cloud puts everything into composing, and she gives him that. She gives him a long while. Maybe longer than she would have for someone she hadn’t grown up with, doesn’t have the history with. And he needs it. At length he reaches out and closes the folder.

“Where are his parents?”

“The infor—”

“Just tell me, Tifa.”

“They’re dead,” she sniffs. “They died when he was young. Whatever he said about them, whatever sob story he gave you, he was lying. It was _all_ a lie. He doesn't love you.”

Cloud gives her no reaction.

“Who is that man, the Director?” he demands, voice like metal.

  
  
 

_Status: Deceased - Location: Withheld_

You learn something new every day. Like, Zack never knew before today that you could be fully awake, completely aware and present, while someone, a particularly fucking insane someone, removed your eyeball. He never knew that he would one day be forced to watch that scene, for as long as he was able, up until they cut the cord, literally, optic nerve severed, and the lights go out. And that’s just the first one, the first eye. There’s one more to go.

_(depart, proceed, set forth)_

It might not be a long procedure, the enucleation, but they’re breaking for a conference anyway, talking between themselves, the surgeon, the professor, the nurses, about things like orbits and conjunctiva and postciliary veins and recovery times. Meanwhile fluids are syphoned, dressings laid and pressed, anesthesia refreshed and Zack listens. They confer and argue and plan. The slightest ache that had grown behind his eyeballs begins to wane. The slightest life that had slept begins to crawl back into his limbs, his fingers, his guts. He flexes a hand.

_(can i getta?)_

The truth is, he can still see. As far as it can be called seeing, this glowing state, this light show. It’s a new type of sight. Even with one eye gone and the other taped shut he can see the tools and the machines, the restraints over him, the sheets and smocks, the splatter guards. He can tell you just how many scalpels they’re not watching on that tray just over there, and he can see how foolish, how arrogant, it was not to have given him a general anesthetic, because now he can move, now he can break his bonds.

_Don’t get cocky. Still weak as a kitten._

“Shall we continue?”

“Yes, sir.”

_No time._

“Condition of Subject Z?”

_Now or never._

_Now._

Hojo leans down too close to check his work, poke fun, agonize, and Zack spits in his face.

_Or never._

Hojo reels back, squawking. Nurses and the surgeon gasp, rush in. It gives Zack the golden opportunity to rise up against the leather restraints. He’s screaming, yelling, roaring. His throat burns. He can see, and he can hear, and that cracking snap is the strap over his chest and forehead busting, that second crack another.

“Call the guards!” a woman is shrieking. “The guards! _Guards!_ ”


	14. Chapter 14

_Status: Deceased - Location: Withheld_

He does not escape at this time.

The nurses and the surgeon are frozen, the professor scrubbing at his face, gurney tipped, instruments scattered, IVs felled, tubes torn free, juices dripping (from his arms, from IV bags), machines flat-lining, leather restraints on the floor, fluorescent bulbs overheard snapping, flickering, cheering him on, and in his hand, a scalpel.

It looks good.

No, it looks _great_.

And then the guards burst in, and there’s twice as many as the two he’d seen before. They peg and rush him immediately. The spearhead gives him a full body check, his friends behind joining in, barreling in, a human train.

He reacts valiantly, hunkering down to shoulder the blow, stopping them dead on impact, but he can’t yet take the four, the five, now six bodies pushing back, driving in all at once, determined to bring him down. It might look like a football huddle to an outsider, a little shoulder bumping before the snap, something harmless, but this is life or death. 

Come what may, he’s grinning in their clustered faces, teeth bared

_(without covering, naked, nude)_

wild and vicious. It's a smile, a battle glaze, a learned tactic not unused by him in the past. He wouldn't tell Cloud this, wouldn't admit it out loud to anyone—not even as a prayer, a last word, not anymore—but, to his eternal shame, he strikes fear in the hearts of men. Enemies have cowered and retreated just at the sight of him. Given proper motivation, Zack was a monster enough on his own without mako infusion. He knew how to lose himself, to go a little mad. On the up and up, back in the day, whenever that was; a legend pending.

He is otherwise blind now. Visibly blind. One eye little more than a gauze dressing, the other still taped closed. All those clever colour cues mix and smear like city lights at night across windshield, becoming a confusing mist, a toss up of locations, bodies and items. 

He loses Hojo in the nauseating mix. He loses his footing. He loses the scalpel. He loses the fight. The guards bring him down, both sides swearing and clamouring. They tenderize vulnerable ribs, wrench arms, bar his neck, kick at the backs of his knees. They’re able to crush him to the floor long enough for a nurse, or Hojo, to administer a potent sedative. It has to be a real cocktail, potentially lethal to someone untreated because he’s a damn brick wall, a tank, un-fucking-stoppable.

The needle burns when it sticks.

He hisses.

_(...it’s charring, searing, scorching...)_

Alternatively, the fluid inside the syringe is ice water, drawing out his strength, eating away his precious adrenaline, leaching clarity from his consciousness. It hits him like a mega-ton hammer and he's shattered, struggling slowed, fight muted. Those bricks crumble, that tank metal bows, and the guards pile off, one by one, two by two.

Caught staggering between states of awareness, out and in, Zack is only able to watch from the floor, seeing shoe covers and boots, pant legs, and surgical smocks crowding in, rushing away, and there, his glorious mess beyond, now only a rumour of his almost success. As they (a small army of men), hoist him upright—as Hojo and crew float back into a see-sawing view—he loses it.

No more glimmer, no more shimmer, the plug's been pulled.

He's done.

  
  
 

_Status: Captain 2nd Class - Location: NCB2, dormitory_

In the end, Cloud doesn’t get much out of Tifa. She’s a brick wall, insisting he read the contents of the file rather than pressing her. Everything she’s told him, every lie and false fact, she repeats and repeats. The only new piece of information he’s able to glean is about his training, and that starts tomorrow, _bright and early, get some sleep._

She says his name one last time, just to spite him. A dagger point of a goodbye.

He’s glad to leave the room when the debriefing grinds to its end. So glad, he’s temporarily relieved to see Reno and Vegas waiting for him in the hall, collectively leaned against a wall, checking their cell phones. They look up in unison when he clicks the door shut.

After the initial relief, he waits for the grudge to wash over, some kind, _any_ kind of hate or disdain for the two, his surrogate bodyguards, his keepers, but nothing comes. He doesn't have the capacity, he’s all poured out. He allows them to lead him deeper into the base, farther away from wherever Zack could be, from contact, escape, liberation, freedom. The base is more lively here. Officers pass, soldiers jog by, rooms branch off into facilities filled with workers. Reno again runs like a faucet from the mouth, both Vegas and Cloud tuning him out.

When they come to the dorms and his room after a winding walk, he expects them to stand guard outside. Vegas instead, key card enabled, unlocks the door and they enter with him. They start turning on lamps, every lamp, and then they split to check the bathroom, the small kitchen, the closets, looking for anything amiss probably, or any person(s) unwelcome.

Cloud waits in the center of the room. Thankfully, it's quite big, actually two rooms connected. Once they come back to meet him, he pounces, preemptively saying he needs to lie down. They nod together, as usual, and drop down into a sofa. Reno, sickeningly, smiling away.

When he’s alone (to a degree) at last, behind the closed bedroom door, Cloud sinks to the floor and doesn’t move for an age. An Iron Age. A Bronze Age. He remains there crumpled, folded, emotionally reeling, starving for comfort, unable to release tears, curse, or even throw a raging fit. He stays still, a little out of exhaustion, a little out of stubborn will. He’s tired of this, tired of the weakness, tired of the fear, just _damn tired_.

His legs are pins and needles when he gets to standing again. He’s almost headed back down to the floor they’re so bad, but he makes it to the bed’s edge. His sudden weight causes the cushion to sag accommodatingly. It wasn’t entirely a lie that he wanted to have a rest. He needs one, needs a lifetime of sleep, but, and with good reason, he doesn’t feel comfortable enough to here. He’s not so sure he’ll wake back up, and if he does, that he’ll even be in the same place, or of the same mind. Thankfully, before any decision is needed, a knock comes at the door.

“Yes?”

“It’s Reno. Coming in.”

It's unusual that he announces it even if he doesn't ask. Turks, that's what he's assuming they are, defy nearly every rank system in Shinra (sans the real big guys). They are a secret police: enforcement by force. Even if he is a captain now, Cloud doesn't have the clout you'd imagine. He's still very much fair game.

He sits upright, arms at his sides, relaxed but ready for a threat. Deep down, not newly confirmed, he trusts no one. No one but Zack. And maybe that’s foolish too. A weakness admitted: he can’t help but doubt certain memories becoming thinned.

“Sleep well?”

“Not exactly,” he admits, tone flat.

“Oh?” Reno is busying himself with something on the wardrobe closest to the door. Some knick-knack. He slunk in like a cat and closed the door behind, making very little noise. He hasn’t proceeded farther into the room.

That’s about when Cloud realizes he’s not only there to check up on him. No, he has an ulterior motive, a personal agenda. That generally means bad news for him. All anybody ever seems to want is to cause him harm. Maybe he’s speculated this before, but is that really how the world works? Is there that little to count on, look forward to, and to trust? Is he that miserably unlucky? The answer is, as it was before, as it will always be: _yes_ , all of the above.

“What do you want?” he presses.

Reno sets the gleaming metal knick-knack, an ugly modern sculpture, back in its resting place. He moves away from the door to stand knee-to-knee with Cloud, who, uncomfortably, now has to look up to retain the eye contact.

The advantage is leaned in Reno’s favour. He accents this knowledge by grinning his grin, toothily. It looks good on him, made for him, but Cloud won’t trust it. He’s never not missed an opportunity to smile at him, come to think of it. He figured it was a front, a personality defect, but now it seems to be something else, not far from a hint or promise.

“You have _got_ to be the _finest_ thing we’ve ever had to bodyguard.”

It takes a second for Cloud to register what was said. When it does finally click, a little lopsidedly, it’s a dopey thought process to the tune of: _What? Oh. He’s hitting on me. He’s hitting on me?_ And then, despite himself, despite the whole situation, the tiniest smile pulls at his lips, just there, at the very corner.

He's tired, he's hungry, he's hardly present, and this (a genuine pass) doesn't happen too often, so give the kid (he _is_ only eighteen) a break. To be perfectly honest, to always come back to the beginning, Zack was the first to honestly flirt with him. Zack was the catalyst. And no, it doesn't feel great using past tense when referring to him. It carelessly slams him back to reality.

“Are you done?” Cloud pushes, expressing exasperation.

Reno’s smile never fades, never falters.

“I’ve got plenty more, y’know, but my tongue’s better used other places.” He comes to rest on his knees, terribly close now but not yet breaking that preciously thin barrier of personal space. “Could help ya sleep,” he offers, narrowly whispering it, the insinuation not lost.

“No…” Cloud responds softly, a touch vacantly, looking beyond him. Those eyes are a lighter blue than Zack’s and lovely (light, shallow, like coastal waters, blue and turquoise), but not as patient and understanding and mesmerizing (and as dark a blue as blue can get, as deep as raging ocean, as changeable as a storm) as he knows them to be. “No,” he repeats more firmly.

“Light fondling then?”

He looks him square in the face now, his own blank. “You’re persistent.”

“It gets the job done,” Reno shrugs. “Generally.” He rocks back onto his heels. “I like you. Hard to get. Timid. Mysterious. Find that sexy, y’know. Real sexy. I can work with that. I can work that out. Fortunately, for both of us, Vegas doesn’t share my tastes. He likes the ladies. Same look though, which is funny. He’s always been—”

“Reno.”

His bodyguard quiets.

Cloud deadpans, “Get out of my room."

“You must have a boyfriend, yo.” He’s scooting back to throw his arms up dramatically.

Cloud is then compelled to decide his next words carefully, confidently. It took him less time to determine Reno’s tactics but he comes unwittingly to a true turning point. He renounces his doubt, his trepidation, his inaction, and his painful past with the simple phrase: “I do.”

“Stars in your eyes,” Reno muses.

“Huh?” Cloud truly is tired. A little slow on the pick up. Can feel his head wanting to droop and his jaw slackening. His breathing is steady, even, and the lamps are seeming to darken and dim of their own accord. Time is strenuously thick.

“He must be something,” Reno confirms, no longer crowding in but sitting lazily on the carpet in front of him. “He puts stars in your eyes. What’s he like? Where is he? Shinra? What rank?”

“He’s…” And Cloud can’t continue.

He’s not for anybody else. He’s for him. Even if he isn’t. Even if Zack only liked him for a short period of time, just a _thing_ he had to work out of his system. Even if he’s _dead, dead, dead (don’t let him be, don’t, don’t, don't do that to me again)_ that time was still all for him. Every record he has, every interaction, every insinuation, every act of intimacy they shared. His. One and only.

Reno stares.

Cloud starts to give him something, a white lie maybe, mouth dropping open and hanging, because no matter what he does (thanks, mom), he’s a notoriously nice guy. Can't not, even if he doesn’t remember how to be good, morally just, upstanding, not an inch. He wrestles for a response, jaw working, but he doesn’t have to worry. Vegas comes in and breaks up the party.

“I knew it."

“What?” Reno replies a little too quickly.

“Get out."

Vegas pushes the door open, it knocks the back wall firmly. He cocks his head.

“Out.”

   
  


_Status: Head of Science and Research Departments, Shinra - Location: Shinra Headquarters - in surgery_

_The conjunctiva (outer covering of eye) is removed with blunt scissors (A)._

Hojo is not naturally an existential man. A large majority of his curiosities and scientific endeavours have come from twisted versions of models encountered in others. Morals turned upside down, metaphors mocked, poetic justices applied. His work on Subject Z is no exception.

He is aware of the specimen’s past, his apparent plans, his companion’s unfortunate injury. It was all just too perfect not to acknowledge. Evil, he has been told, lacks the ability to create, to produce. True evil cannot bring life, it can only rape, deform, and defile life existing.

_The four rectus muscles are removed from their attachments to the eyeball (B)._

He wonders: they say the eyes are the windows to the soul. Does that mean this soul will then die, isolated? What will happen to it trapped in darkness? Is there some place it will go? Is there a safety? A lock down mode? Will it fully regress? Atrophy like a muscle? Or will it rage and war?

And just _how_ to define a soul….

_The optic nerve is severed (C), and the eyeball is removed._

Purely a concept? A fabrication? Or tangible? Like a viscera? Something you could hold? Something you could crush? And what sort of data will he compile with this round of testing? How long will it take for these wounds to heal? How much more mako will this body take? 

He has deliberately taken liberties with the subject’s treatment. He’s only flesh and blood. At every turn he is challenging him to break, to die, to give in. Every procedure to come is going to test the limits of nature, bend the fabric of genetics, forge something terrible and unique.

_The socket is evaluated after removal of the pressure dressing (D)._

Shinra wants a new weapon, something with a twist. 

_If the edema has disappeared, the sutures are removed (E)._

This should give them a twist.

  
  
 

_Status: General, SOLDIER 1st Class - Location: Withheld_

The playback is grainy but discernible.

No. 8’s black box was discovered two days ago on the continent. Sephiroth and the Director watch it now, not for the first time. The Director is proving a point, a painful point, and Sephiroth has never liked those. He likes it even less when his superiors chastise him for decisions he would have made repeatedly. No matter how many times he explains his position on the matter (Zack needed to be stopped, he’d gone rogue, end of story), the Director won’t listen. That’s typical of course, but no less infuriating.

“You squandered valuable resources, men, and a priceless prototype.”

“It wasn’t a prototype.”

“My point still stands.”

Sephiroth sighs.

"You need to stop this,” the Director warns. “As much as you might think it, we don’t have unlimited men. There isn’t some mill spitting them out ready for battle. They take training and housing, and that takes time and money." He has his hands folded, perched on his immaculate desk, his expression deceptive, calm. He almost looks his age: ancient.

"I generally don't care what my men do in their free time," he continues, expression breaking to become pointed, knowing, "but, when their careless actions reach my ears—when I have to sign off on massive clean ups _and_ cover-ups—there is no excuse. You're losing your freedoms. You're being reassigned. Wutai will have to wait."

Sephiroth remains unreadable. He's boiling inside. The Director has never approved of his orientation or his methods. He knows about certain relations because Shinra pays him to know. It's been a point of strain between the two of them for as long as he cares to remember. Rightly, his personal life is none of his business, but now he's given him the perfect reason to punish him for it, the perfect reason to tighten up that choke chain he's got around his neck.

"I want you here to oversee your pet project."

The Director waits a beat. He doesn't get the reaction he was most likely digging for.

Sephiroth alludes naught.

"Turn the debacle into progress, General, or you won't keep that title for long. You know, personally, how we deal with retired SOLDIERs. Imagine what would happen to a dishonorable discharge. Hojo needs guinea pigs and my Turks are restless."

That gets a sneer.

The Director is outwardly pleased. "Now get out of my sight." The pleasure quickly turns to a scowl.

His gunblade, a wonder of a weapon, hangs on a wooden plaque behind him. It's a triple-barreled, triple-cylindered revolver married to a razor-edged sword, one wicked curve curling at the end. He called it—when it was still just a gun, when he was still just a Turk—Cerberus. This new version is known as Hydra. This is why he's famous, why he's SOLDIER's Director, why Sephiroth ultimately respects him.

He _is_ SOLDIER mythos.

" _Director_."

Sephiroth growls his farewell.

Still, he'd love to test that reputation.

  
  
 

_Status: Deceased - Location: Withheld_

Take two.

Fitting, because when he comes around again, for the second time, the world all too bright and glaring, too intense and unbearable, he knows, down in the pit of his empty stomach, to the depths of his shredded heart, they’ve taken the other eye and he will never see naturally again.

At the very least it’s of little immediate negative consequence when there’s a mako light show to fall back on. Raw Lifestream, processed mako, and fragments, wisps, like ghosts in the machine. He must be pumped so full of the stuff he’d glow in the fucking dark.

 _(fireworks at a parade, volcanic eruption)_

And the voices.

_(...endless, warring…)_

Yeah. A side effect. He’s been hearing those guys since the beginning, since waking up to Hojo’s experiments. They started mild enough, indifferent, and he ignored them, but now they’re louder, demanding action. Some skirt the familiar, all of them distracting and digging. The result isn’t obedience, or fear, it’s an even deeper longing for Cloud.

He would pray to see his face, to hear his voice, for a chance to hold him close, his boy wonder. He longs to be there for him. It’s fully his duty, his purpose. He would pray every hour of his waking existence if he thought any good would come of it. His track record isn't that great though and that’s breath better saved.

He will make another promise.

He will no longer buffer or filter. He’s going to speak his mind from here on.

He is absolutely sick with a certain emotion, drugged by it, beaten down by it. An emotion he is wary of naming or acknowledging because of previous experiences (he never knew he was so sensitive). But when he gets out of here, because that’s what he’s going to do, when they meet again, no matter the location or how many people are present, he’s going to tell him, because life’s too damn short: _I’m an idiot. I’m in love with you_. And then he’s going to kiss him hard, for as long as they both can stand, and all will be perfect, and shining, and right.

_(...focus, focus…)_

He stops, shuts off the tap.

Resets, listens and looks.

It's painful, pushing Cloud down and away, but it’s necessary.

The glare melts away into a room. A room abuzz with machines, lamps, wires, cables, and tubes. A nurse is standing at his bedside. She is meticulously checking over a file, assessing his IV drips, and his bandages. He’s restrained again, a collection of electrodes covering his scalp. The sedative is wearing (perhaps sooner than they expected, perhaps to their complete surprise), but he will wait. No need for a repeat of last time. Sooner or later someone will make this easier. Then he’ll be free to rampage, to revolt, to tear the place apart. He’ll find Cloud and fix this shit storm.

Waiting might not be as easy as hoped. A newcomer has arrived. And here’s an aura no better than a smudged in bruise, no more graceful than a walking hematoma. Its owner’s identity is not a surprise to Zack. No, more likely serendipity.

“Look at this sad image,” Kunsel opines.

The nurse reacts quickly. “You can’t be in here,” she warns. “You need to leave. This is a restricted area." She sets down her pen on her clipboard, very severe expression brewing.

Zack watches, getting a touch of that voyeuristic thrill.

_(...be dead before he leaves…)_

_(...tear his eyes out…)_

_(...smash his knees…)_

The voices rave.

Kunsel steps forward.

_(...no, save that for hojo…)_

_(...no, no, no…)_

_(...kill him now, kill him now…)_

It’s getting crowded. Not yet practiced enough to block so many frenzied cries vying to be heard.

_(...watch out!...)_

Like a ray of light spearing through clouds, a pressure builds where his left eye would be. It’s little more than a prod but an animal-like terror too wild to catch and contain lodges itself where his rational mind was moments ago. He seizes and howls into his audience’s collective faces, restraints snapping and straining. Both Kunsel and the nurse reel back, terrified.

Zack quiets and lies still.

Kunsel is looking regretful, like a child caught in the act.

_(...he’s afraid of you…)_

_(...they all are…)_

_(...they should be…)_

“Was that…?” Kunsel begins, rather shakily, until he sees it.

His ghost of a grin.

Kunsel then scoffs, furious, and rushes in.

“I’ll give you a grin," he spits, pure venom, grabbing for a scalpel.

“ _Stop_ ,” shouts the nurse. “Stop, you can’t do that! You need to leave.”

But he proceeds, blinders firmly on.

“I heard your boyfriend—”

He doesn’t get beyond that point, the words stick there in his throat where Zack’s fingers have clamped them. If he wanted to he could end his little games, his backstabbing, snuff him out with the flex of a few muscles, turn him blue to match that living hue he’s got tagging around. Can’t breathe with a pinched windpipe. But he needs him.

An airy _oh_ is all the nurse has for the scene. She was on the move as soon as he reached out. She dropped her work, nearly tripping over herself. She’s gone now, alerting someone, anyone. He’ll have a few minutes before the cavalry arrives then.

He tugs Kunsel to his level, close enough for a peck. He doesn’t say anything. Discouragingly enough, he can’t. His mouth won’t open, his tongue inert. That’s well enough. He's enjoying watching him squirm and wince, every flash of panic, every rumour of pain. He eats it right up, compounding that vengeful, hungry fire burning in his blood like a bad fever.

“ _Where…?_ ” he finally grates, granite on granite.

He has to let up the grip for Kunsel to respond.

“Eat sh—”

He quickly returns it.

Kunsel squeaks appealingly.

“ _Where?_ ”

Zack is numb. His forehead, his lips, his jaw, his cheeks. Probably spent all he had just to bust that one restraint to snatch him up. But Kunsel doesn’t know that. Kunsel doesn’t know Zack is concerned he won’t be able to stand, let alone run and hide and fight. He doesn’t know his head is starting to throb and ache and the colours he’s grown to read and discern in place of input from his eyeballs are pulsing, distorting crucial outlines, making it harder for him to act.

An alarm sounds far off, now nearer, now right outside. Even noise leaves a halo glow.

Zack has stayed too long.

“Goodbye, Kunsel.” 

“Wait!” Kunsel coughs. “Wait. The… cont… conti… the con…”

“There’s nothing out there!”

Zack loosens his fingers.

“There is!” Kunsel wails, voice cracking. “Th-there’s a base! An underground base!”

“How do I know that?”

_(...it’s truth…)_

He talks over it but Zack only hears...

_(...truth… truth…)_

_(...kill him anyway, kill him, make him pay…)_

He has to mentally tune it out.

Or else he might.

_(...kill… kill him...)_

He might.

_(...pay him back…)_

_(...for Cloud…)_

His fingers tighten.

_(...do it, do it…)_

He releases Kunsel, arm recoiling.

_(...get up, get up…)_

He likes this next suggestion and complies, the restraints seeming to melt off as he rises to stand. He is relieved to find two steady but bare feet underneath him. The swirl of colour cues shift and recollect, becoming crystal. Think a TV screen with the contrast too high. It’s something to get used to, but it beats the shit out of otherwise perpetual darkness.

There’s Kunsel, moody as a black eye, on the floor at his feet, clutching his sore throat. The desire to crush his former friend’s skull is no less rampant. He did him plenty of damage already, otherwise he’d be retaliating, spitting vicious remarks, not helping his case any.

Zack brushes by. Kunsel’s magenta haze, his living aura, it lifts and curls smoky as he does, spreading like a sea, like reverent worshipers too fearful to touch.

_(...now go…)_

_(...go, go, go, now…)_

He strides ahead, bursting through the double doors to reach the corridor outside. A trail of blood leads a shivering line behind him. He’ll need to clean up. He’ll need to find some clothes too, and his lighter, his boots, his smokes. 

_Oh fucking hell, do I need a cigarette._

_About a handful of cigarettes._

_A volley of them._

After all this is over, maybe he’ll buy Cloud and himself a tobacco plantation. They’ll live out the rest of their lives sitting on a porch, drinking tea and watching the sun go down. Zack can smoke his lungs black and die in the bed they’ll share for years, and years, and….

“Hey!”

This guard has a gun. He’s got it trained right on Zack’s bare head. He can tell this because that's his view square down the wispy black barrel, that’s a bullet in the chamber.

“Stop or I’ll shoot,” the guard roars, all business. He’s about as young as Cloud looked when he first found him fighting off bullies a millennia ago.

“You don’t want to do that,” Zack suggests, putting a hand out, supplicating.

“Don’t move!” The kid-guard barks.

He remains.

The guard is nervous, but he does finally draw closer, making to apprehend him. He lowers his firearm, going so far as to holster it, bringing out a pair of handcuffs in place. Unfortunately, he has misread the situation, as anyone would have, seeing only a blinded escapee. He reaches for Zack's raised hand, slow and steady, as if handling a spooked animal.

Zack absolutely takes advantage.


	15. Chapter 15

_Status: Captain 2nd Class - Location: NCB2, dormitory_

At some point he sleeps, after a light dinner and lighter conversation. There are no dreams to greet him there, no escape or fantasy or sweet memory. There is only a blackness, a temporary pause. He is already so soon back to the cruelness of reality.

Despite himself, despite the withering bout of exhaustion and help from the ever present situation (the pressure, the wonder), he wakes early. He doesn’t feel any more rested than before. No relief. 

This is a heavy and settled in sluggishness. This is his head, but more specifically, that phantom eye, throbbing distantly and constantly. This is going to take him weeks to shake, and longer still to get into a balanced rhythm and fighting fit. 

The first real order of business is to get clean.

He preempts with a blink, a yawn, and steeling himself. He can mimic being human by scrubbing off the layers of dirt, grime, blood, and sweat collected over the period the two of them had been on the run. Together. He hasn't even done that. Not since a quick rub down in that harbor town. It's been a day, maybe two. He can’t hardly keep track thanks to the manner in which he was brought here. It’s been forever and yet hours.

The hot water infuses heat into his skin and a whisper of calmness. But the second order, dressing, that threatens to steal back any good benefits.

Vegas brings him his captain’s uniform. He displays it with a flourish. It's less of a thrill and more of a death shroud wrapped in plastic, unworn, especially made for him. Everything about it makes Cloud uneasy, and he demonstrates by staring for longer than necessary. Fresh from the shower, his hair hangs over any unpleasant expression. He drips and drips.

It’s beautiful really, the whole thing. Here’s a lovely luster manufactured to excite, the likes of which can only be rivaled by nature and hearty mountain flowers; a set of emblems and a cut of lines manufactured to intimidate, the likes of which none can rival. It's nearly perfect.

To his dismay both bodyguards are present and remain.

Vegas does turn after handing off the suit, enough to give him at least the thought of privacy, but Reno does not. He faces him dead on, arms crossed, stepped all that much closer than his twin brother, and oh, isn’t that a smile fit for the cat that got the cream.

"No funny business," he informs.

Cloud makes short work of the process, stare down complete. He dries his hair, his back, pulls on the provided underwear, socks and slacks. He quickly ties boot laces. His flesh is tingling, being prickled by a thousand electric needles. He is all too aware of the greedy eyes watching, but he doesn’t look up. He doesn’t dare. 

Only on the last button of his uniform’s overcoat, fingers steady, closing high collar around throat, does he give that nagging desire a chance.

It's Tifa’s glossy pictures all over again. It's her baby blue folder.

He knows he shouldn’t have, he really shouldn’t have, but he does.

Reno’s rubbing himself through his slacks. Those ocean tide eyes are dialed in, iris just a sandbar sliver, pupils vast, consuming. The rhythm is slow, deliberate, and a show only Cloud can see. His steady fingers fumble. The last button pops free.

“Let me get that," Reno's offering, already on him.

He crosses no small distance to become closer than a shadow, hotter than a burn. He collects Shinra colours and presses the rebel button back through fabric, securing Cloud's look, completing the effect. And he remains there, waiting a long beat, hailstorm of badly contained want and intent very nearly easing itself into Cloud’s hipbone.

Cloud, on the opposing side, stands firm. His chin is still cocked to the ceiling, jaw still vulnerable, throat covered but exposed. He’s good, he's got him, he's just as locked in. His stare is ice cold, even, unblinking. It’s a challenge, an all-out declaration of war, and Reno accepts.

He draws a finger down Cloud’s prim collar, admiring. His head tilts, new smile easing. He leans close, closer, fingers duplicating, becoming a crew, and that crew he takes on a meandering path along Cloud's jawline. He reaches shoulder, flattening, running smooth and slow. Over his shoulder, down biceps and beyond elbow he goes. Face to face now, breath caught moist between, Reno finds his wrist and turns the hand palm outward.

Cloud meets fabric fingertips first, palm joining in late.

Reno presses on to reveal the heavy outline hidden inside his slacks.

Cloud comprehends and jerks away.

“You—”

Reno’s mouth finds him. It’s a crash landing. The botched interjection lets him right inside.

Several heartbeats _drum, drum, drum_. Several swipes of a silky wet tongue pass, _slick, slick_.

Cloud plays it out. He doesn’t squirm or pull away. Not like he might have before. Before crashing and burning, before Zack, before this frozen fucking continent. But he does have a gift waiting for him, a little retaliation.

As soon as Reno makes to retreat, Cloud stops him with a hand at the back of his neck. He voids the lingering space still between them to draw out the kiss.

“Ow!” Reno barks suddenly, and jerks back. "He bit me!” he howls.

Vegas blurts out a stunned laugh even as Reno’s running into him to repel away. He draws them both back across the room, just about to the door. Stopped there, eyes wide, Reno touches the abused lip. Blood smears.

“I like you more everyday," he breathes, sucking the wounded flesh between his teeth.

Just as quickly, dressing over and done with, the two bodyguards are making to leave. Vegas, subduing a chuckle, slips outside first. Reno winks at Cloud, lips crimson. He's closing the door behind them, that smile stained, the breaks in his teeth cherry.

His parting remark is, "You have a visitor.”

The door clicks shut.

End scene.

Cloud exhales.

A visitor. This could be bad. That phantom eyeball throbs, zealous, as if to agree. He swallows saliva thick as sawdust. He fusses with a tight sleeve cuff. He shifts from left foot to right foot, feeling out new boots. He tastes the coppery blood on his tongue.

That predatory smile of Reno’s has changed. It’s as much of a promise as before, sure, but now it means Cloud’s going to fight back. You better watch yourself, you better think twice. You're gonna pay. You’re finally gonna pay. All of you. Every last one.

Reno isn’t the type to take the hint, alas. He’ll press harder. It can’t be denied, especially if he asked about a partner and then went ahead after an answer anyway. There will be plenty more opportunities to flex the new conviction. Plenty more advances to stanch and dodge. He’ll need the practice if he’s going to get out of here. He’ll need to get used to this new rank, and this uniform, and the void, the yawning nothing, where Zack should be.

A tall mirror hung on the wall to his right shows him the reflection of a stranger. A soldier. A nameless serviceman. He takes several good breathes, smelling air conditioning, the sterility of the over-clean room, notes of lemon soap.

The last piece of the uniform, a red sash, the true mark of a captain, rests forgotten on the bed spread. He grabs for it to tuck it inside his jacket before advancing to put a hand on the doorknob. He ignores the sinking in his guts at seeing the same hand Reno had controlled. An impostor, tainted. He finally turns the knob and steps out, careful to stay smooth and cool, features stable but guarded.

It’s going to be a surprise either way, his visitor. He’s just hoping, beyond hope, _oh fuck, fuck, fuck, sorry, mom. Language. I’m so sorry, but don’t let it be him. Anyone but him. I’ll take Tifa again, or crashing and burning, the absence of faith. I’ll take anything else but him right now. I can’t deal with that. Not yet. Not him. Not yet. Calm down. Calm._

It’s not him, it's not Sephiroth, and he does calm. His shoulders, that he hadn’t known were tensed, relax. He lets a pent up breath escape. Whether he knows it or not, he’s illustrating the picture of calm and class, regardless of how unstable it feels, or how foreign.

Reno and Vegas look on from the kitchen alcove. There are no visible signs of their interaction.

The living room is Cloud's stage, his co-star and visitor a former friend.

  
 

_Status: Deceased - Location: Withheld_

One more push and he’s done.

The gun clatters to the tiled floor. It slides.

Zack doesn’t have to rush to it, the limp body in his arms is the only man in the immediate area. He can take his sweet time if he desired. Dressed in nothing but a hospital gown he can dance the unconscious guard around the hallway to the tunes of panicked sirens and leave him propped in a corner. Can hop and skip to pick up the gun and stroll on to the next adventure.

He might just, because he fucking can. Because he’s fucking free.

They’ll wish they had killed him. Shinra will rue the ever-loving day. But, here comes the catch. The universe, The Maker, they won’t have it easy. No, no, no. It doesn’t make for good drama. Happy stories are for children. They want blood and tears. You just don't learn any other way.

In good form, his head starts a mean throb. He’s already gotten the gun, discarded the guard and made it to the sacred ground of the elevators when his breath grows short too. And then the throb kicks it up twenty notches, alarm bells echo away, agonizing. Now he’s afforded these shooting pains, or icicles pulled through the base of his skull.

He wobbles into a wall, leaning all his weight there.

The elevator doors are closed but they're waiting, the call button throbbing too.

He can’t. Those mako lights might be present, outlining and illuminating, but they’re doing so sickly now, distorting the substitute vision as sun spots after a bright light would, or the shimmering of heat in the distance. Coupled with a migraine, he can’t soon go on.

If he can’t see, he can’t react. If he can’t react, he’s dead. If he’s dead.

So is Cloud.

   


_Status: Captain 2nd Class - Location: NCB2, dormitory_

“You’re meeting with him today,” she carries on. “And you’ll probably be moved too, so don’t get too comfortable with this suite. Your escort will carry over. And, before I forget, you’ll also be presented officially with your new rank this afternoon. Nothing huge, no fanfare. Do get your boots shined though, put on your sash. And,” she pauses to eye him. “Maybe a haircut. Always been unruly.”

Cloud wants the visit to end.

Tifa is in her own full uniform, just as prim and pressed as he is in return. If he wasn’t satisfied with the idea of being an officer before he’s even less now. It’s a mockery. He wants more than anything to break the casual speech she’s laying on him. Break it with a fist, shatter the farce, correct the faults. But, of course, he listens. He takes the moment and stores it away. They’re only succeeding in giving him more reasons to demand justice, to claw tooth and nail.

“Alright,” he confirms.

“Good," she adds, nodding.

Her arms are clasped behind her at the small of her back. The stance itself is stiff and uncomfortable. She would make a great sign post. It’s all so overdone and awkward if you really look. She’s trying so hard to just _do the job_ and nothing else.

The realization buffers Cloud’s plans to resist. He’s seeing weaknesses and fixing to exploit them. Going to make his move first. They’ll only do it to him in the end. But, doesn’t that make him no better? _Is_ he no better? A few weeks ago he _was_ one of them. He wore their uniform and ate their food. And now here he is again, dressed and promoted.

_How far flung are you really?_

“I’ll see you all this afternoon,” she says and leaves like everyone else leaves.

Everyone, and everything, walks out on Cloud.

  
 

_Status: Deceased - Location: Withheld_

Dive as deep as you dare underwater and then look up. Any light cast over the surface will be broken into an infinite and shifting star burst. Even with all this refraction going on you’ll only get glimpses of the source, the faintest twinkle and shine of the origin. This is what seeing is like for Zack in this ugly moment. As close as he can liken.

He spits in the corner, missing the sterling silver face of a trash receptacle by millimeters. His mouth is flooding with fluid. He should puke and put an end to it but he’s fighting it off instead, holding it all in, terrified to break. He’s lost track of how long he’s been standing here, vulnerable. This isn’t even the start of the bad news.

A civilian could apprehend him. An average man could lead him to a bed and lie him down to sleep. And he wouldn’t fight much. He would probably sleep too. It could happen. It’s difficult for him to hear on top of not seeing. Between the muted voices urging and urging _(...get a move on...)_ , the stormy rush of blood in his head, and Shinra's alarms, he wouldn’t notice a one-man band coming. And, for more yet, his skin is trying to peel away, buzzing alight. Moving his fingers a twitch sends stabs of poisoned spikes along flesh and bones now delicate as paper but receptive as lightning rod.

Sweat streams down his face, the back of his bare head. His shoulders and arms begin to quake. His knees, thinking that’s all a good idea, try tremors and twitches. His nerves crackle and fizzle, angry, overwhelmed. He slides his face over that wall, probably leaving a wet mark, and looks, just looks for now.

The elevator remains. His vision is unstable, nauseating, but he can pick out that landmark.

It’s always a fucking elevator with him, isn’t it? He just can’t seem to get away from them. Maybe it’s supposed to mean something. He’s always walking through thresholds and into a different situation anyway. He’s either rising or falling.

He pushes off from the wall with his forehead, leaning far back, arms lifting late to reach out for balance. His equilibrium is shot to shit. He’s going to fall over and vomit. That’s what’s going to happen here. That’s how his story’s going to end. He’s going to fall and vomit and they’re going to find him half conscious. They will restrain him and drag him back to a dark room to be dissected and injected. Done.

Zack groans, spits again, but now he’s facing the elevators, not the wall. He pictures the word _steady_ , he’s reaching deep for the definition of _firm_.

He takes that first wobbling step, and the leg accommodates. He tries another, slow and steady. Both legs play nice. The brushed steel doors draw that much closer. It’s slow, but it’s possible.

In truth, he’s been on the go for a total of five and a half minutes. He could still hop and skip if he had the physical fortitude. Shinra won’t know the situation for another five minutes, give or take three. The nurse is still sprinting at this point, panicked. The alarm going off is actually a fire alarm she tripped on her way out, so, add two more minutes for her to catch her breath, compose, and then make the actual call to security. Two more to explain the situation. He’s looking at ten minutes max to get from here, floor whatever, to ground level.

Easy as you please.

_(...left foot, right foot, feet, feet…)_

His head bumps hard surface. He slaps the call button and allows himself to lean, lean, lean so close to falling until the chime dings and the doors slide out of his way. He doesn’t step inside, he drops to his knees and in he shuffles. He has to reach up to get at the buttons.

And then, doors pressing back together, sanctuary.

Only no.

The nausea is manageable, his nerves all buzzed out, headache dulled, but he’s not safe. He’s heard stories of missing mountain climbers. These survivors, in their final moment, right in that window of being rescued, they let go and succumb to their wounds, or stress, or hunger, dehydration, and die right there in the arms of their rescuers. Seconds from liberation, seconds from home, seconds from freedom.

It’s heartbreaking, but it's happened.

The lesson, the motivation he’s pawing for… never give up.

Not until it’s over and behind you, friend.

_(...stay frosty...)_

_(...give it all you got...)_

Zack stands, using all his might (and the elevator walls), and gets frosty. There’s still a walk through the lobby he has to do, and the front doors, and down the front steps, and into the sweet obscurity of a dark alley. With the fire alarms going off, lighting up the steel box blush red, he’s got even more shit coming his way. As soon as that floor level approaches they might not even give him the satisfaction of a dramatic entrance. They’ll be too busy opening fire as soon as he lands. He can step to the side all he wants but they’ll have more. More bullets and grenades and materia and hell. They always have more.

“Get frosty.”

It’s strange to hear his own voice. He’s a smoker no doubt but this rasping grate is something else. On top of all his other colourful injuries could he be getting sick as well?

He coughs, hacks, tries clearing the gunk out of his throat, but to no avail. His breath is squeezed and wet in his lungs. Not good.

“Get frosty,” he repeats, sounding no better.

The floor numbers decrease.

They're promising fireworks.

_3…_

And sorrow.

_2…_

And pain.

_1…_

And he is so soon back to the cruelness of reality.

 

_Status: Captain 2nd Class - Location: NCB2, dormitory_

With nothing to do until the meeting an hour away, and another two hours to the rank presentation, Cloud asks Reno and Vegas if they can show him around the base. If nothing else he can ease his mind by roaming. Even if it helps little. He needs the distraction, needs to pull as far away from the thought of the impending doom of Sephiroth before it consumes him.

He’ll be damned if he has to face him with his defenses down. The hatred, the fear, the anger. Every second of their most excellent moment together (to the tune of: _Don't make me do it. No, no. Don't. No!_ ) would come rushing back. He’d be high above Midgar all over again, drowning in a green haze and the aroma of the room, dagger in hand, Zack’s blood on his fingers.

Reno, the loyal puppy that he is, jumps at the idea.

Vegas, the loyal dog that he is, doesn’t think it’s appropriate.

Cloud shrugs.

“Don’t I have some kind of Captain’s clout now?” he pushes.

Reno and Vegas exchange a glance.

Cloud doesn’t care for it.

“Sure,” Reno offers. “But I’m playing dumb.”

“Well, that wouldn’t change anything,” Vegas grumbles back.

With his bodyguards bickering behind, Cloud leaves the dorm to follow the hallway towards a huge nothing. He’s not sure what he’s looking for just yet, if he _is_ looking for anything. Would it be too farfetched an idea to think Zack was here? And if he was, where would he be? Do they have some sort of detention center here? A jail maybe? Is there a medical facility?

He realizes he’s asked the last two or three out loud when Vegas starts responding.

“Medical bay, holding cells, interrogation rooms, dorms, armory, canteen, you name it.”

“Well,” Cloud stops to turn and face him. “Where would the holding cells be?”

“That way,” Reno responds before his brother can. He’s pointing down the hall branching to their right.

“Follow it to the end and turn—”

Vegas hisses at him.

“What?” Reno hisses back.

Cloud turns to Reno now.

“I _almost_ regret biting you,” he jokes.

Reno throws his arms up, exasperated.

They switch course and follow the new corridor.

Cloud is ready, his pace near a jog.

He’s ready for the sky to fall, the dirt to scorch, the trees to burn. Give him hell, but give him justice. Give him something to amount for all of this shit. All the wrong in his life, all the wrong in the world. He will be larger than life, infused with the absolute authority of moral satisfaction. For the sake of what is good and decent he must be. He must silence his heart, his fear, and his frantic needs.

“Slow down,” Vegas calls from behind him.

Cloud breaks into a run.

Both bodyguards curse ( _fuck!_ ) and give chase. 

   


_Status: Deceased - Location: Withheld_

_Ding_.

Zack presses and holds the ‘close doors’ button as soon as his tomb comes to rest on the ground floor. He’s standing safe off to the side. Or so he hopes. He doesn’t have to wait long to find out though, the doors start to snap and pop moments later. They deflect the first few bullets but the barrage soon intensifies, making the barrier start to give. All at once, an explosion of metal and fire coughs shards inward. The doors tear and bust at the seam, sparks and shrapnel dance. The soundtrack is a cacophony of machine guns. Every bullet pounds home.

It settles just as violently as it began. Smoke swirls, the smell of gunfire rises. The two elevator doors stand aerated, shredded, but they’re also still hanging on. The glare from gun mounted flashlights light through countless holes and the jagged seam, beams sweeping and panning, looking for their target. The armed group beyond are holding back but staying alert, waiting until everyone is reloaded and the next order is given.

Thirty shells from Shinra knows how many guns, held by just as many men. That amounts to a lot of bullets and a lot of attention and a lot of damage. Zack is positive there won’t be much left when they’re done. He’s relieved he still has a right shoulder.

The reload complete, the order given, they let another round fly, and it’s hell for twenty seconds but then again quiet.

_Click, click, click._

They’re spent.

“Hey!” Zack calls out.

He waits for their response, hearing only the wind in his head and faint metallic notes.

When no one calls back he bellows, “Any of you fuckers got a smoke?”

Someone, more than likely a cadet, offers, “Why don’t you come out and get one?”

Zack scoffs and replies, “Because we all know how that would end.”

“You lookin’ like a colander?” jabs, more than likely, their captain.

Several of the group chuckle.

“No, no, not happening,” Zack rebuffs. “How about that smoke though?”

“I’ve got something for ya….”

And something is thrown inside the elevator then, making it through a gaping hole. It clinks as it strikes the back wall and it clanks as it hits the floor to roll and wobble, uneven.

Zack knows what it is without hesitation.

He rushes for it with both hands.

“I said a cigarette, you jerks!”

And he tosses the grenade right back at them.

   


_Status: Captain 2nd Class - Location: NCB2_

What he finds is disappointment. 

He might have the authority to enter the detention center but he can’t go so far as seeing prisoners or a list of names. 

The guards in the area watch them, wary. They know who Cloud is, and they know all too well the repercussions of not keeping an eye on high priority personnel. He might be high priority but he’s also high sensitivity. That means he’s a liability. That means watch your ass.

Soon beaten down by the stall of action, Cloud leaves the center. He’s not about to incense this shaky alliance or give anyone reason to wonder too much.

He heads back the way they came, bodyguards in toe. He’s shrugging, he knows, because he’s deflated. It’s hard not to be. He’s his own cheerleader now, his own wingman, and that’s never worked for him. Not then, not now. He’s never had good ideas. He’s never been strong enough. He doesn’t have the training. He’s going to be crushed by the responsibility of having to find and rescue Zack. If not crushed by Shrina.

“We should be getting back,” Vegas suggests.

Cloud gives no response.

They soon come again to the dormitory and Vegas unlocks his door to lead them inside. Cloud flops on the sofa in the living room as soon as it comes within reach, eyes closing on contact.

It’s over.

He’ll be meeting Death in half an hour.

“He’s not here,” Reno whispers then.

The redhead has sat himself down next to Cloud. 

“What?” Cloud mumbles back. He hasn’t acknowledged him beyond that.

“He’s in Midgar,” Reno informs, still a whisper. “He’s in Midgar, he’s alive. I swear it.”

Reno is taking every opportunity to look over his shoulder for his brother. He, meanwhile, is in the kitchen sourcing beverages.

“Why?”

“What?” Reno retorts, leaning in to hear, to keep it secret.

“Why are you telling me this?” Cloud presses, finally looking him in the face.

“Because I tasted true love,” Reno replies.

Vegas returns then and sets out the drinks. He takes up an opposing armchair.

Cloud is ready to crack, to sob, to rejoice.

“I can remove him if you’d like,” Vegas offers, implying his brother’s closeness.

“No,” Cloud answers back, voice thick, laden. “He’s fine.”

Vegas shrugs, nods and takes a swig.

In order to do the same Reno grabs his bottle from the table. He side-glances Cloud as he gulps, driving the reality of their furtive conversation further home. His gestures and glances might still appear like flirting to his brother but to Cloud, again, they’ve changed.

They look more like hope.

Someone might have his back after all.


	16. Chapter 16

_Status: Deceased - Location: Withheld_

He's already shooting the borrowed gun he got off the guard through the rend in the elevator doors. Not that he _really_ wants to kill anyone (he's had enough of that jazz), he's just bent on making it through this and to the lobby, the front stairs, and the end of the day, no matter what. There’s still so much to do. He's going to survive like he survived every one of Shinra's battles before. He will pull through this like he did after meeting their war machine. He’s going to come out walking, like he did after two air crashes and a confrontation with Sephiroth. Yeah, he's going to succeed. Hojo and the rest of them be damned. Call this a speed bump, a hiccup. Give him five more minutes and...

_(...duck...)_

He ducks his head down and the grenade explodes. The entire building shakes, dust and smoke cough inside his safe (dead) zone, shrapnel embeds its vicious self into the already peppered wall behind him, and then, relative quiet overcomes. The shrapnel steams as it rests, cooling, metal twisted, but uniform, like an art installation. Dust settles, grit and gravel skitter.

It’s already been a long day. He’s got to be ready for his next move. There’s only going to be one shot. If he misses the precious window (trips, or fumbles, or a glare causes him to flinch, or the uneven ground sends him forward), he’s all full of holes.

He gets to his feet and makes for the busted elevator doors, the best direct exit. He passes through with little drama and finds the lobby smoked out on the other side. Every light bulb and pane of glass seems to have shattered. There is full on darkness. The night outside is deep.

Not that any of this bothers him. He can’t see the smoke, it hardly registers, he only smells it. What he can see are bodies strewn across the floor. The group sent was not very quick in their reaction time and they paid for it. There are no survivors, not even the lightest of living aura. If other personnel had been in the area too, they’re not anymore. Well, they’d be all over the area.

He drops the spent pistol and quickly crosses the wrecked lobby floor to the entrance of the tower. The front doors are only naked frame, the rest blown out by the explosion. He pushes one open anyway and steps out into the cool of the night. Shinra has no opposition waiting.

It’s the single best thing he’s felt since coming back to life. He breathes the air in, draws it down deeply, exhales. Now he is headed for the maze at the base of the tower, the alley, the bustling of the crowded streets. Padding down the front steps, two at a time, he will soon be swallowed by the darkness there, and the heavy shroud will be a welcoming comfort and something so well needed.

If they follow, Shinra will incur great losses by the beginning of the new day. Like any great ego goaded, you bet your ass they will. They’ll come down hard. Any sort of game plan would be great to have right now. Especially right now. But, he’s drawing a blank. He hadn’t gotten beyond this point, to be honest. It was cut, run and hide before.

He pans his surroundings, the action making his temperamental head dizzy. This is an area of Midgar he never knew well. Could tell of a few times when he got lost on outings back during his patrol days. It’s all too-close buildings and steaming vents. Buzzing lights, glowing windows, pulled curtains. Too many half-lit faces. So many narrow passages and dead ends.

He’s hugging the walls, sticking to the shadows, playing it smart and cautious. He needs to find a dry and dark crevice to crawl into, somewhere he can lick his wounds.

And form that plan.

 

 

_Status: Captain 2nd Class - Location: NCB2_

Cloud is brought to Sephiroth’s quarters thirty minutes later. By then, the high collar of his uniform has started cutting a line into the underside of his jaw, and his new boots have rubbed his ankles raw. He’s uncomfortable, he’s nervous, and he’s itching to pick Reno’s brain.

It’s all really bad timing.

When they arrived they were told to wait in a vestibule-like room. One door in and out, another leading to Cloud’s probable doom. They are the only occupants. The room looks and smells new. Protective plastic film still clings to every armrest.

His bodyguards have sat themselves across from him, outlining the whole working situation. They take every passive chance to illustrate it’s just a job, not a joy.

Reno plucks at his cellphone while Vegas meditates. Or, at least, that’s what it looks like he’s doing. His eyes are closed, his arms crossed, he appears at rest.

Cloud is not.

When they’re allowed through they find Sephiroth sitting behind a large desk. It’s out of place, too formal to be authentic. He isn’t the type that needed a desk. And if he did, he probably used it to sit on, lean against, or to intimidate new recruits, like he was doing now.

Or something worse.

He doesn’t need a desk to intimidate Cloud. It feels like he’s inside his head already, picking around, pulsing behind his eyeball and throbbing in his sore knee. And Cloud swears he senses the beginnings of green tea on his tongue. The beginnings of an end.

“Cloud,” the General greets. His voice is pure liquid smoke. He stands and gestures to an empty armchair.

As soon as Cloud sits, his guards have gone. He is alone, face-to-face with Zack's killer. Because that is what he is to him, and it’s not going to leave his mind. Let it be a constant storyline between them until something is proven otherwise (or the story finally ends).

Sephiroth retakes his seat, leather creaks.

Cloud holds himself upright, leg starting to twinge. The wince he buffers as he readjusts himself.

Sephiroth observes.

"Are you comfortable?" he asks.

Cloud clears his throat. “Yes."

Sephiroth allows him to settle, out of kindness or formality, and Cloud hates him for it.

"You might already know why you're here," he starts, leaning back in his chair, relaxed. "You’re being moved, you've been promoted, you’re a valuable asset to Shinra and its firms. I'm going to be handling you from now on.”

How it’s phrased is not lost on Cloud (nor is the lack of Zack being mentioned). He nods anyway, knee starting to itch and burn.

“You don’t have any questions?” pushes Sephiroth, after a short beat.

Cloud is finding the eye contact difficult to bear.

“Not that I can think of,” he mumbles, hanging in there.

Honestly, as any half sane person would, he has many questions. Too many, an army of the things. And, at the forefront, the big and burning one. It’s been boiling, surging, sickening his guts and his heart. All he wants, all he needs. What the hell is the truth worth?

Sephiroth smiles. In its infancy it must have been something else (sweet, innocent, decent), but it’s far away from anything like that here and now. It’s a smile deeply turned, and it’s well beyond sour, it’s upside down and inside out. It threatens with every passing moment, every strenuous one, to eat Cloud whole. Bones, sinew, struggling, screaming, and all.

Cloud blinks, eyes stinging as if by sweat but he’s all dried out, mouth and palms. He doesn’t honestly believe he’s going to make it out of this room alive. He’d be crazy to think Shinra was that kind, or that foolish. They could just bar the door and let Sephiroth do his thing. Wipe the slate clean (his side of the slate anyway). He might even let him know it’s coming beforehand, or, more to his style, let it be a complete shock.

Cloud’s unease grows, his leg begins to bounce.

“Nothing you can think of,” Sephiroth repeats, breaking the stare to look down at his empty desk.

And here, this could be the moment. He wouldn’t have to move much, the Masamune is a long sword. He would only have to stand, lunge, and that’s Cloud pinned like a butterfly to the armchair. He’d be helpless to stop it. His blood, his story and his ambitions would drain via a neat exit wound, drawing along the mile long tang to collect at the tip. Drip, drip, drip. That’s a manageable puddle collecting on the carpet for the cleaning crew.

Sephiroth stands.

Cloud flinches.

It goes unnoticed, as the General is rounding his huge desk, coming on over.

“If you do have any questions,” he’s saying, “please come to me personally. Inquiries, concerns. Anything. I’ll be in charge of your eventual retraining and tasks. There is no one above me in the chain of command. It’s just you and me.”

He is tall at his side, immovable, treacherous and lovely.

Cloud nods again. He doesn’t need to look over, he’s been following him the entire time. For all that he holds against him, all that he knows, he is still compelled to say nothing. He won’t disobey, and that is all wrong. _This_ is all wrong. He is a different person from what he remembers. There are hints and suggestions, yes, but nothing like the monster that kidnapped him, promised him death, and almost made him murder his companion. That image had been everything Zack presented to be true, but now, this is a new face, and it’s playing him for a fool.

He’s never going to trust anything anyone tells him in here. Not a damn thing, and that’s Reno’s promise included. They could tell him tomorrow's Wednesday, and it’d be true, but he would doubt. He would still wonder at their angle. This is Shinra, and Shinra only serves Shinra. And maybe _that’s_ the angle. They’ll drive him mad with his own wonder.

“See you at the presentation,” Sephiroth cuts in, and then calls out, “We’re done.”

Reno and Vegas enter. Cloud is collected and they exit.

Their fateful meeting comes to a dull end.

 

 

_Status: Deceased - Location: Withheld_

He doesn’t dream.

It’s hard to say what he does, and for how long he does it. When he’s awake, he can see, he can hear, and that’s as far as he needs to know. But, when he’s asleep, he can’t be sure, there’s not much of a transition. He can’t very well close his eyes. They’re always open thanks to his enhancements slash defects. As soon as he’s conscious again everything becomes static, and he can fool himself into thinking he’s part of the world.

He’s lucky he has what he has at all, even if it’s likely killing him.

“Hey, you. Hello.”

He’s not sure if that’s in his head or not, so he doesn’t respond.

Before Shinra could track him, he found a dark hole to crawl into just as the sun came up. He got so far as the slums, thank the Maker, staggering and falling, crawling at points, but he made it to his depths of obscurity, and there he slept (maybe for days), and there he didn’t dream.

He must be in someone’s bed.

“Hey, hey, _hey_!”

Because they won’t shut up.

“What?” he croaks, but lies still. He is so very stiff.

“Who are you? Where did you come from? Is that blood on you? What happened to your face?”

A child’s voice.

Zack rolls over, groans a loud groan. His neck and back pop.

“Ouch,” he winces.

Crouched in the debris is an orphan child. One of a billion in the Midgar slums.

“Are you hurt? Did someone fight you? Are you okay? Where is your hair?”

“Are _you_ okay?” Zack retorts, getting annoyed. “You seem to be unsure about a lot of things.”

He gradually sits upright as best he can in the tight space.

“I’m just little,” the orphan rebukes, and she is. She’s got to be six years-old. They’re all so malnourished down here, she could be ten. She’s filthy head to toe, as is the standard, and that could be a dress she’s wearing, or it could be garbage. She’s cute enough, round-faced, natural hair colour anyone’s guess. Her aura is like a water lily, the most delicate of indigo.

“You’re nosy,” Zack explains. He’d much rather be sleeping than having an argument.

“No! I’m observant!” she hollers, and then she’s gone, scampered off.

“You’re too young for me anyway,” he grumbles under a breath. He pulls himself from the refuse he called a bed, adding, with the crack of his neck, “And I’m taken.”

It’s unusually (and unruly) bright down here. What he remembers as a dimmed and dark environment is now vivid and glowing, tubes and wires and pipes leading up to the city hang over their heads. There goes electricity and oil and waste and coolants, and he can see them all, and it’s blinding. He’ll need shades. Sunglasses would hide his medical condition some too.

That’s when it strikes him.

He’s still bandaged and half naked, dressed in a hospital gown.

“Fuck,” he swears aloud.

“You shouldn’t do that,” a small voice chastises.

The orphan has returned.

Zack, still very much being Zack, plays the game. He asks her, “Do what?”

“Say bad words.”

“I’m old enough to,” he reasons.

“My mom still says you shouldn’t,” she reasons right back.

He chooses to say nothing to that, dodging the guilt attached to thinking about her parents and the bad consequences that drove her here. Maybe a runaway. Maybe snatched and dropped. Maybe the result of being unwanted, or theirs were accidental deaths. Or, perhaps still, they were killed off by illness, injury, or foul play. He’s not thinking about it. He's not thinking about his own parents now either. He can’t. Finding Cloud has become too critical.

“Do you know where I can get clothes?” he blurts.

He smiles his best smile.

She grins back, a flower blooming.

“I know a lot of things,” she answers.

 

 

_Status: Captain 2nd Class - Location: NCB2_

Reno isn’t being so generous with his information anymore.

What is more likely, Cloud’s come to realize, is that he wants something from him in return for whatever he might know about Zack. And he has to know, or he’ll go mad. He has to reach him, dead or alive, or he might as well be dead himself. For the short time they were together he was the kindest, warmest thing in his life (beyond his mother). It would be a crime to let him go. In this hour, done with Sephiroth, beyond the state of shock and fear of being caught, over the hill of inaction and worry, please, step in Fate, take it away, show him what needs to be done.

“Where in Midgar?”

He’s asked very basic questions so far, trying to keep his voice down and his growing temper checked. Nothing has progressed from what he learned earlier in the day. It’s closer to noon now, as far as the clock tells him, and Reno keeps shaking his head. He might have tasted true love, but he tasted an opportunity more so.

_He’s not your friend._

_Or companion._

_He’s an employee of Shinra, the enemy. Don’t forget this._

Instead of remembering this, Cloud whines: “Please. Tell me anything.”

He’s slipped up, he’s weakened, he doesn’t have an infinite source of strength to pull from like any SOLDIER would. He’s only a cadet, a grunt. Or at least, he was. Officially, in about twenty-five minutes, he’ll be an officer, and that’s working out just as well.

Reno likes what he hears though, and he perks up.

“ _Please?_ ” he repeats, incredulous. “Are you begging?”

The choices are staggering. Cloud could either choose to follow him down that rabbit hole, or he could see just how long before playing by the rules gets him killed. Or brainwashed. Even if some people are already, confounding enough, treating him as if he was.

He hangs on the question, rolling it around. They’re reclined next to one another, otherwise alone on the new sofa in his new living room. Vegas is busy, or watching from the shadows. Cloud knits his brow, looks at his hands resting on his lap.

Reno inches closer.

“Let me hear it,” he’s saying, predatory smile at work.

Cloud braces and commits. He only mouths the word, _please_ , but Reno outright assaults him. Their mouths mash, melding, teeth glancing, and the goal Cloud was aiming for is obscured in the chaos. He is swept up, bowled over, pinned. He wants so badly for him to stop, but he has to carry on. He can't fail, even if he’s confident he’s already lost.

“ _What the hell?_ ”

Vegas has found them.

“I leave for five minutes! Are you kidding me!?”

Reno is torn from atop Cloud.

“This is so unprofessional,” Vegas rants. “We’re supposed to be taking him to his stupid presentation in twenty minutes, not fucking him! I can’t trust you as far as I can throw you. You’re worse than a dog. How are you my brother?”

Reno stands to defend himself, arguing with his twin. Cloud lies where he was steamrolled. He’s catching his breath, wiping at his damp mouth, sitting up. He doesn’t pay mind to most of their bickering but he does hear Vegas telling Reno, in closing, that he better watch his ass or Sephiroth will have his head.

And that sets off the alarm bells.

He never thought of who was in charge of these two before, and who they must be reporting to. What a thing to miss. If it _is_ Sephiroth, which is a good guess, he better watch what he says and does more closely than ever. While that’s good to know, he still hasn’t learned any new information about Zack, and now he never might. He’ll give it one more shot anyway, but it’ll have to be later. He is taken out of his room as soon as he recovers from Reno’s encounter.

With Vegas in front and Reno behind, they keep him at a steady pace. They’re leading him to the presentation hall and his official ranking. His feet and leg ail him as they go, every step rubbing in a new sting and a fresh ache. He has not relaxed an inch since waking.

All the corridors of NCB2 are the same. Wherever they’re headed, his bodyguards know the way. The signs posted are small, confusing, and more code than anything. He has tried to keep track of the different areas for escape purposes, but hasn’t had much luck yet. It’s like someone switches up the layout every night.

Just like that, after walking a few minutes and passing through two unmarked grey doors, they’re inside the grand hall. Cloud has never had the honor of being inside a church before. Nibelheim never got one built when he was growing up there. The mako reactor had been the real money and came first. He imagines, as he looks on, that this is what it must be like.

The ceiling goes up for days, curving inward like an upside down bowl. On this dome, this sultry bending, Shinra logos, characters and colours are painted. It’s a mural of war and world history. The hall itself is an array of steel benches for seating, and at the center, a rounded stage. Every bench is filled with personnel. The stage is lit.

Reno and Vegas escort him down the runway to the stage and then melt away into the seated crowd. Not a sound is made (not even a cough) as he steps up and walks across dead space to stand and join the group of officers receiving commendations. The air remains unbroken.

A decorated officer steps forward then, crossing the stage, and comes to a microphone.

The presentation begins.

Cloud is too busy noticing Sephiroth to enjoy any shred of the moment. He is standing behind the officers on stage. He is standing behind _him_. And, as if to send a formal complaint, his eyeball twitches pain deep into his skull. He jerks his whole head to the side, wincing.

The twitch is quickly followed by the pressure of a hand on his shoulder.

“You seem to be having trouble,” Sephiroth whispers into his ear.

Goosebumps prickle, his breath catches, and the pain subsides.

“How do you feel? Nervous? Proud?”

He has no choice but to listen as the announcing officer carries on, microphone whining.

The hand squeezes, demanding his whole attention.

“Or is it,” and Sephiroth's tone turns dangerous. “Shame? Guilt?”

Cloud feels dizzy all at once.

“Not done defiling his memory?”

Fingernails claw and dig.

“His career is over and your's is just beginning.”

This is torture. This is the man he remembers.

He somehow manages to hear his name when it’s called and he jumps forward, snatching at the chance to be free of the torment. Sephiroth’s grip does not let him go without leaving its mark though. He can feel it throbbing like a bruise as he stands to attention, accepting his new rank. He is the third officer to be called up, and the stage is full. He will have to go back and listen to that monster for the rest of the damn ceremony.

Unless he does something.

Sephiroth stares on from across the short distance, feline eyes pleased and cutting.

Cloud looks away, breaking the venomous connection. He pans the library of faces, searching for any kind eyes, anyone he might recognize.

As soon as the last ribbon is pinned to his uniform and the crowd applauds, he panics and makes his exit stage left. It takes him away from his tormentor but opposes the presentation’s proceedings. He hops to the ground floor anyway, grey double doors in his sights.

He gets farther than to be expected.

Halfway down the lane he is intercepted by Reno.

Cloud raises his arms. “Don’t take me back up there,” he tries.

Confused employees look on from seats close by.

“Modest, aren’t we?” Reno opines, and grabs his arm.

He’s pulling him back.

 

 

_Status: Deceased - Location: Withheld_

“What colour is this? I can’t quite tell.”

“Of course you can’t,” the orphan remarks. “Purple.”

“Eh,” Zack sniffs. “Not too fond of that anymore.”

They’re pulling through garbage, flipping over cardboard, tossing metal chunks, sorting paper and plastic, turning over barrels and boxes. And there is still so much. Here’s shredded tarpaulin, torn bed sheets, bowed cabinets and pipes and sinks. Bits of old toys. They’re standing at the top of a mountain of it all, and one in a range of many.

“I need dark colours, like black and brown,” Zack tells her. “To be stealthier.”

“But you can’t see. You’ll trip over everything.”

Zack hasn’t explained anything to her yet. He feels it’s probably for the best. The less she knows about him, the less Shinra can eventually press her for. He’s already being bad enough by sticking around. He should have left the city by now. He should have been on his way.

“I’ll do my best,” he insists.

She might catch on, she’s rather sharp. He hopes to be out of her life by the time that happens though. And well before he learns her name or her unhappy history, that’s for sure. He can’t take on another stray. One is hard enough. One might have been too much.

“ _There_ , there’s black,” she’s chirping.

The garment brushes his fingers so that he might feel for it first and then grab it. Because she thinks he’s blind. Because she’s accommodating as best she can. It’s breaking his heart. So eager and helpful. So desperately young to be cast aside already.

“What’s your name?” he finds himself asking, adding the garment to the collection. He wants to slap himself. His head, man, hasn’t been playing by the rules at all.

“Abby. I think. The others call me Scarecrow. I don’t call myself anything.”

Zack hesitates to carry on the conversation. He picks and pulls at the refuse. Everything here is an orphan. Here’s an old plate in his hand, chipped, halved and stained. Someone ate off this at one point in its life. Here’s a flat bicycle tire, a crushed computer tower, a myriad of busted light bulbs and rusted, deformed metal fragments. All orphans, all cast aside. He never felt so worthy of a place. The top of the trash heap, Zack Fair.

“What’s yours?” she asks, looking over a crushed something.

“I’m… uh,” and he stalls, frowning. “Call me whatever you want.”

“That’s no fun.” The girl makes a disapproving face.

“I’m not here for fun.”

“I’m not either,” she adds quietly, dropping the junk.

Zack stops his hunting to grab for her. She resists of course, pulling away, survival instincts kicking in. But she needn't have worried. He pulls her to his chest and there he only holds her, hugging, embracing, not hurting or crushing. She must not have remembered the motion because she struggles on. But, she soon relaxes, and soon she’s hugging back.

They stay that way, clinging to one another. Clinging to hope and kindness, and to the possibilities with the dawning of a new day, and to triumph, and justice, and peace, and so much more. They hold on to these feelings until they’re interrupted by other orphans and pickers searching for treasures themselves, taking their embrace for good luck. Not a word is passed between them when they break apart. It’s right back to their task.

And he knows he can’t leave her.

He just can’t.

He wouldn’t be able to live with himself, however much longer that might be. Even if it means losing precious time looking for Cloud. It’s his duty as a person with power and a moral standing. It’s his duty as a Fair.

So that forces him to take her with him? And what if she doesn’t want to come? What if she runs and hides, or fights tooth and raggedy nail? What of every other orphan?

They’ve been at their search for most of the morning now (or afternoon), collecting shreds and ribbons of old clothing, bags, canvas, rags. If he could see the sky he might know the time for certain, but as it is he can only make out the undersides of the plates above. The glare from the city’s circulatory system has not dimmed any. It’s high noon all day.

“Let’s take a break,” he finally suggests. His head aches.

The girl quits to sit next to him. She asks, “Are you hungry?”

He hasn’t thought about that. Not in a long while. And he might be. He probably should eat something. Although, more importantly, he should have a drink before anything else. He’s more parched than hungry, mouth dry as dust. What he could _really_ go for would only worsen things.

“Thirsty,” he admits, leaving out the cigarettes.

“Go rest.”

And she’s off, making her clumsy way down the far side of the heap. He is left to collect his piecemeal outfit and make his way down alone. He gratefully doesn’t lose balance once.

Heading back to the hidey-hole he came from is a safe bet. Wouldn’t imagine anyone will recognize him here, but word gets around all the same. He’d be smart to stay low. People unhappily stuck in the slums will try every hand at getting back out again, especially if they’re ambitious, and desperate. Everyone left over remains because it’s become home, or they’re hiding out themselves.

He doesn’t rest like he was told while she is away. No, he begins the process of dressing himself with the scavenged fabric. It isn’t an easy task. He’s having to tie off and wrap loose bits, around and around, tying others and repeating. He’s going to be as good as a mummy probably. Well, an inverted mummy, all blacked out instead.

It’s the best method he’s got for now. They weren’t able to find pieces complete or unshredded, and he doesn’t have the gil or means to barter or trade for anything better. It might help him be stealthy too. Hell, he’ll take that. The title of first Gongagan ninja is not unappealing.

He’s got his lower half fitted and comfortable when the orphan returns.

It’s the flare that causes him to look up at all. He thought a light overhead might have been burning itself out, with the sheer brightness of it, but it’s not a bad bulb, or the damn city, or the slums around them. It’s a creature, a four-legged animal, aura like lava pouring off a volcano, but, most alarming of all, it's escorting his indigo orphan girl.

“Someone’s looking for you,” she sing-songs.

He can’t stanch the stab of betrayal, or the sudden rush of fear for her.

A Shinra emblem dangles from its collar.


	17. Chapter 17

_Status: Captain 2nd Class - Location: NCB2_

Cloud is breaking down.

The cruelty of Sephiroth is pouring out. It's been nothing but a constant stream of verbal punches and well-aimed roundhouses since Reno brought him back on stage; every word directed at his heart, a plunging dagger in its own right. He hasn't laid a hand back on him, but he hasn't needed to. Cloud can feel him in his bones, under his skin, throbbing in his eye; every fibre of his being struggling to focus on not fainting, not dropping on his ass, not tapping out.

"How did it feel when you stabbed him? You should be ashamed. Your hero brought you to safety time and time again, but here you are, blood on your hands, having returned that devotion with violence and indifference. Tossed him aside so quickly. You sound like one of us.”

Cloud balls his fists, clenches his jaw. “I’m not.” 

“Look at yourself.”

He does, and there he sees a decorated Shinra uniform.

“That wasn’t my doing,” he argues.

“Did you refuse it?”

“Did I have a choice?” Cloud shakes his head, works his sore fingers and palms.

“There’s always a choice."

They’re overtaken then by the audience’s applause. The ceremony has come to an end. Sephiroth has stayed leaned in right over his shoulder through most of it, always whispering under the announcing officer, always sticking and twisting that knife into his ribs.

“I'm not ready to choose death," Cloud retorts, and closes with that. He follows the soldiers (now officers) as they file off stage and down the lane to exit the presentation hall. 

His knee aches with every step, and his vision is blurred, but he’s proud. He can feel like he took charge and came out on top, and now he can somehow beat him. If only he could fight with words rather than what he knows is the inevitability of swords, magic, lies and death.

“You’re making fast friends.”

The remark is Vegas for a change. He’s grinning in a knowing sort of way, arms crossed over his red suit tie. Reno is not. He pays all the commotion no mind. They’ve been waiting for him out in the corridor.

Cloud detaches from his group to join with them, accepting there is no point in trying another escape so soon. Not from schedule, or routine, or his doting bodyguards. After such an encounter too, that’s just fine with him.

He needs to get out of this damn uniform. 

 

 

_Status: Deceased - Location: Withheld_

He won't react until spoken to.

He’s going to play this blind card as far as he can and push whatever advantage he’s afforded, come what may. It’s all in the way he handles things now, and he’s expecting them to get messy, as proven in the past and his stained history. How contained and yet responsive he is in the next few moments will be key to his (and the little one’s) survival.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Zack.”

He tries not to be taken by the fact it’s speaking.

What had he been expecting? A note? 

“What do you want?” His voice is shredded metal on stone. He finally looks over, unable to ignore how close the orphan girl is still hanging around. She’s making this already awkward meeting complicated, and ten times more stressful. He swears he squints from the glare still pouring off the creature (which is an odd thing) and hopes it wasn’t noticeable. 

“Only to help.” And the beast thing just sits there, in the dirt, thankfully not having moved any closer since its appearance. They must be five yards apart, what could only be garbage and debris blocking any straight on shots. Its tail swishes, leaving a streaking red half-moon as it sails back and forth, right to left. “I hear a lot of things.”

“Have you heard the one about Sephiroth and my parents?”

“Heard the one about Sephiroth and Cloud.”

Zack goes rigid. He wants to stand and throttle it out of the damn thing but he can’t, he shouldn’t, he’s already said too much. Causing a physical confrontation would not be any kind of snappy alternative. The fire’s loose in his blood though, giving company to his ever present desire to retaliate, forge justice and clout the bad guys. Oh, yes, does he have one hell of a stubborn streak. It's a family heirloom. Unfortunately, to his and his ancestor’s bane, the trigger is sticky and the results often disastrous. 

“What do you know about Cloud?” he demands.

“I know he’s alive, and where he is.”

Zack is cool, he's collected, he shows no outward reaction. Inside, he is panicked, sweaty turmoil. He would have been, what feels like years ago, flying off the handle just about now and causing a scene. That would have settled things, that's for damn sure, but to which team's advantage no one ever knows. Since meeting Cloud, he's gotten somewhat better at reining in that knee-jerk desire (and that's backwards somehow), but he's still too aware of redeeming himself. Not failure.

“There’s some kind of catch though.” He shoots for calm and gets it, voice unwavering. 

“No,” the creature offers.

“I doubt that.”

“You have every reason to." Its tail flops to the ground and lies still. “How are your headaches? Better?”

Zack flinches, his progress acting natural stalled. “None of your business.”

“I can only imagine... After Hojo had his hands on you there must be side effects, no?”

The orphan girl remains there at the animal’s right hindquarter. She seems bored listening, as if the two of them were parents having an adult conversation. The adult part stands, and sometimes Zack wishes that wasn’t so. He wants for his childhood back. For the carefree days in the sun and water, and getting in late, and the lack of worries. That’s why she can’t be harmed. If only she realized the evil around her. Enemies can act so civilized sometimes.

“Strong as a fucking ox,” he stresses.

“I hope so.”

Zack doesn’t miss the remark, he hangs on it, forcing the animal to speak again, which it does soon after, mellow and soft, reopening a messy wound he is desperate to have healed.

“They’re holding him in Shinra Tower. I don’t suppose you’ve caught up on current events... Been out of the game a while. They had you locked down for weeks.”

“Weeks?” Zack breathes, winded.

“Almost three. Sephiroth has been busy meanwhile. The President was murdered, the Director ousted, the balance disrupted.”

Zack again looks into the glow. “Am I supposed to be upset?”

The animal’s ears twitch and lay flat against its skull. It looks to the little girl, kindness and worry evident there, then looks back to Zack, expression likely resolved. “The President’s son, Rufus, is to take over. He will cause great pain in Midgar, and all over the world.”

_(...sorrow, fear…)_

“He’s worse than Sephiroth?”

_(...death, struggle, torture…)_

“In many ways they’re the same.”

The sudden silence wedges in and spreads. As far as mental silence goes... all this information is going to take some processing. His brain is already starting to whisper again of headaches and paralysis and vomit. And the voices he wants muted for good, they haven’t gone. He’d just gotten free of Shinra, and that damn tower, and now he must go back. Frankly, he’s annoyed by what the over-sized cat is even suggesting.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he points to his face and the bandages still there, “but, Hojo took my fucking eyeballs. I hardly work anymore. "

“Yes. We’re not many, and we’re not strong, but you’re our best shot. That's why I'm here speaking to you, risking both our lives. We're helping you, so you can help us."

“Us?”

“Yes.”

Zack reassesses.

“You’re anti-Shinra, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, man." He hangs his head. “This was already complicated.” He makes a move though, strapped for time, and stands. He’s also restless, always dealing with the itch to be on task.

“I'm going to trust you,” he tells it. "Only because I'm desperate, and you have to do something for me in return." He points over to the animal, the Shinra insurgent, the game changer (or just progressor). "You have to take this orphan and as many others you can find somewhere safe. If shit is going down, no one’s going to last long in the city, especially them.”

The creature makes no immediate response but appears to contemplate.

“We’re going with the kitty?” The girl comes alive, bouncing over to Zack at last. She examines his makeshift leggings, plucking dirty fingers at dirty knots.

“If he would be so kind,” Zack says, drawing her close.

The creature nods, metal charms in its braided fur rattling. “I’ll do my best.”

“You’ll do it or I’ll come back for you, and I'll haunt you if I have to. My family has history, man.”

The creature does not reply.

"So where’s Sephiroth?" Zack asks.

"He's gone into hiding. We have reason to believe he is up north."

"Figures. He deserves a dark hole. He deserves death, now that I have no chance at a life.”

“We should be going.” The animal gets to its feet then, all four of them, the period for talk suddenly over. It tosses its head to indicate the direction, charms again chiming a tune. "It will be morning soon. You will need to hide. We can supply and protect you for as long as possible. We can talk more when the others are present."

With the air deflated of stress and dire consequences, Zack begins to relax.

He’s made a lot of mistakes in his life up to now. He regrets not contacting his parents more. He regrets joining Shinra and meeting Sephiroth. He regrets not asking more questions and ever wanting for greatness, or power, or love. And lately, just before blacking out into the abyss of his subconsciousness, he regrets being born. He’s made a lot of mistakes up to this point, more than he can count, and would ever want to, but this upcoming one, this natural desire to rest and let someone else take the lead, it’s the next closest thing to killing him.

He obeys, following the beast, leaving behind his short-lived slum home and half realized plans (but gaining an ally and the missing key), when out of the clear blue sky, all systems crash. He clearly feels the moment his heart stops, and the hollowness that follows. It makes him halt, list to the right, pass in front of the girl as she’s walking with him, step, stumble, and drop to the dusty ground, shoulder first, out cold. KO.

So much for strong as an ox.

 

 

_Status: Captain 2nd Class - Location: NCB2_

Back in his room, stripped of his Shinra colours, ribbons, badges and stink, Cloud has still been unable to relax. He has not stopped playing back every word Sephiroth said to him hours ago. Hasn't quit since getting in, despite knowing damn well that he shouldn’t, and it’s midnight now, maybe later. His head is throbbing.

 _Blood on your hands._  
_HIS blood._  
_MY hands._  
_Mine._  
_You sound like one of us._  
_MINE._

He cringes in the dark, alone in his bedroom. He can’t sleep. He won’t sleep. He’ll only dream, and there he has no control over the impending events influenced by fear. The torture will progress and build, and waking won’t correct the results.

If he grows more vulnerable how much longer will he last? How much sleep can he miss before making the wrong move? What will become of him when Sephiroth acts next? Is Zack really alive? Or did _he_ kill him? Will he ever see him again? Is there good news, a chance, any hope?

Thinking these miserable thoughts, and spent from the day, he does gradually sleep, dropping out of the world. His eyes blink open hours later, the morning come. It brings with it the new day and no dreams to remember. The reality is bad enough. Waking is his nightmare.

Being situated underground there is no natural sunlight in the base. Fitted along the baseboards throughout every room is fancy track lighting, and they’re always agleam. With his lamps off the room is still dim, and his eyes will take time to adjust. They close, only to shoot open again.

“Morning, sunshine.”

Sephiroth leans in and kisses his forehead.

Cloud clearly feels the moment his heart stops.

 

 

_Status: Deceased - Location: Withheld_

He’s not sure he’s coming back.

Just as he’s seen the light at the end of the long and dangerous tunnel, he’s snatched away, snuffed out. No chance for absolution. How unsatisfying and unjustified. But that’s life, isn’t it? Take it as it is, ugly and hard, but also stingingly wonderful. For all the hurts, cuts, bruises, and tears, you’ve become all the stronger. You’re molded by the pain and you’re beaten into the powerful thing you are meant to become.

He wasn’t allowed to meet that potential. He should have been stronger and fought harder. He was so tired by the end though, and so weary. If this next veil doesn’t lift, where does that leave him? Stuck in darkness and quiet. How will he cope? He still has perception, and he can still reason and fear the unknown, so that’s promising. If he’s still here, maybe he can go back there, to Midgar, and the girl, and the beast, and Cloud.

_Cloud._

He has only memories, the flashes imprinted deeply along his short timeline, but he has them. Death is like watching those vivid moments of interaction, failure and success stream on by, spilling out, being lost to the current.

When he gets to the end will it start playing over again, or is that it?

He’s tired and broken, but, no, he’s not done. He’s going to crash through this darkness and come out on the other side screaming and victorious. He’s going to carry on the fight for as long as he has the fight. Come what may, this is coming to an end.

As if on command, the veil drops like a curtain pulled, and, just like that, the waking world is a supernova, a blazing sun flare, on the other side. He still can’t see a thing, the glare so intense. He lifts an arm to hold his hand over his sore (phantom) eyes.

“You’re okay!”

“I am,” he croaks, and is startled by hands on his chest. They move to touch his face, caress and pet his cheeks. They’re small, warm, and smell clean.

This is blindness.

“I thought you died!” Abby cries. “You just fell over and wouldn’t move!” She sniffles, her fingers press. “Don’t do that again!” And the hands lift, probably to wipe away tears.

“I hope not,” Zack says. And he really does.

“You’re more unstable than we were banking on.” An unfamiliar voice edges in, and it doesn't stop to give him time to catch up. “You’re lucky to be alive, brother. Or maybe not. You should be dead though. You should be a firework, or a damned vegetable. _At least_. It’s fucking ridiculous what they’re doing to people in there. Shinra’s gotta go.”

“Agreed,” Zack again croaks, processing only the last half.

"You're safe, by the way. For now. Had our doc look atcha. She says you're in bad shape, brother. Used words I don't even understand, and I'm no dummy."

Zack hears him, absorbing what he can, but he's waiting for the cues to come back. He’s holding out for the milky gloss to lift, or drop, or shimmy, or _whatever_ —he just needs the fucking objects and people to again become visible inside that twisted vision.

So far, he’s out of luck. If the white out is static he might not have his redemption. There’s going to be no rescuing going on after all, and this is where his journey ends. He'll be useless and waiting to die in the Midgar slums with the group willing but unable to save Cloud.

"I need some supplies. Can you lend me a shirt? I've got to get going. I know where he is. I can get to him. Thanks for the help," he rambles and starts sitting up. The full glare shifts and greys as if sullied, his stomach starts to cramp. "I can't... wait... any longer."

By the end, he’s grabbing his middle, respiration compromised, chest hitching. He’s pushed back by someone’s firm hand. Getting up again is a stomach turning proposition, and fighting just another distant memory.

"You're crazy, brother. You're running on fumes. Chill. We know what's going on, we have eyes on him. He’s not going anywhere. You can trust me. He hasn’t been moved in over a week."

"He's not safe... until he's... with me," Zack stresses, breathless.

"And what do you plan on doin’?"

"I... got out of there… didn't I? I sure as hell... can get back in."

"Even with it being a fortress now, because of your escape _and_ the President's assassination?"

"I'm..."

"In a tight spot. You need to take it easy. You've been through the wars, brother."

"If I stop, I..."

"And you’ve gotta take that chance. Allow yourself to get back on your feet. Stop, eat, sleep. We need you too, remember. And he's going to need all of you. All you’ve got left, man. It might sound like bullshit, and you can't see me, and I have no fucking idea how you even managed to get outta there, but trust me. Stay another few hours, brother."

Zack yawns despite himself, forced to identify the exhaustion now that he’s slowed down for this long. He’s feeling it in his bones, every painful breath dragging out the last fragments of his reserves. "You know… I never trusted a guy... that called me _brother_ … but I... maybe because… I’m so fucking tired, I don't know… You just... sound—"

And, just as suddenly as before, but not nearly as dramatically, he's out.

 

 

_Status: Captain 2nd Class - Location: NCB2_

He's not going to make any quick movements.

He’ll treat the man in black as if he were a big cat, a predator, and in many ways he is. He’s not to be taken lightly. Dealing with Sephiroth is like having a sparring match, a dance of daggers, a chess match deathmatch. You watch your moves and make your lunges, and you never get lazy, or you lose. The real problem though? He doesn’t know who his opponent is today. He’s hoping for the Sephiroth from their meeting, or the Sephiroth from the hangar, distant and untouchable. Anyone but that devil (Zack’s devil), vicious and cutting.

“Sleep well?” the spectre asks.

They’re off to a good start.

“What are you doing here?” Cloud counters, pressing him. He doesn’t add inflection. He doesn’t blink, or frown. He can’t express enough just how much this feeling of doom hurts him to the core, and just how taxing it is to always have to bring a shield up. The constant weight of death is a heavy burden, and not only a mental strain, his entire body is in revolt. He hasn’t been able to clear his head or muster an appetite. He does know that he doesn’t stand a chance against him on his own. That’s why he’s been playing by their rules.

“Just checking in,” Sephiroth answers, and he smooths Cloud’s hair from his cheek.

Cloud remains actionless but cautious.

“You’re stronger than anyone gives you credit for,” he carries on, twirling the hair loosely between his index and middle finger, admiring the white-gold strands. “You’ve been quite refreshing.” He suddenly fists that hand, sweeping up a great hold, dragging Cloud from the bed by the strands alone. “It’s time you were leveled out.”

Cloud makes no reactive sound, he only winces and jerks away, fighting back against the trap. Fingernails glance off leather gloves, legs kick. Both hands retaliate.

“Fuck off,” he growls into Sephiroth’s face, conjuring up Zack. His nails find soft flesh at the wrists at last, and they clamp on. He stresses and digs as far as his strength will let him go, harder and deeper. He might draw blood, he might rip nails.

Sephiroth blanches, solid grip weakening a pinch. “She’d be so disappointed,” he says, a lament for Cloud’s mother, and he throttles him as punishment, not giving him a moment's despair.

Cloud’s head whips and bobs. He clamps his jaw tightly shut, claws his fingers, holding on for the ride and dear life. Luckily, his neck doesn’t snap, his head detach or his hair wrench loose, and as soon as Sephiroth quits he's able to gather himself. Vision still swimming, he bucks and strains, pulls and tears.

“Oh, I like that,” Sephiroth whispers, only dragging him closer, showing no pain or intentions of letting up. The sudden crush squeezes the breath out of Cloud’s lungs, and to his misfortune and dismay, a weak whimper escapes.

Sephiroth grins. "I liked when Zack did that too.” He wrenches Cloud's hair once more, making him bow his back to the extreme, mocking the throws of ecstasy. “He was tough. A real fighter. But he still begged and whimpered and whined by the end. Every. Time.”

“Stop, _stop_ ,” Cloud pleads, biting it out between gasps, mouth gaping wide to the ceiling. The grip is threatening to scalp him, the sharp angle rendering his struggling useless, his own grip painful. The top of his head and hands must be brushing bedsheets. He can’t take much more.

“Just like that,” Sephiroth says, and lets him free.

As soon as the hold is gone, Cloud is off the bed and across the room. He’s put several good feet between him and the General in a matter of seconds.

"Jumpy?” he asks, rising from his seat.

“Stay away from me,” Cloud demands. “You’re poison. You’re twisting words.”

“You’re frantic,” Sephiroth offers, tone soothing, supplication in full swing. He only moves closer, palms out, eating up the distance between them like a fog.

“You’re crazy!”

“You're excited."

“Get back!” Cloud bellows.

But it’s not much use.

 

 

_Status: Deceased - Location: Withheld_

The situation is much the same when he comes back to awareness.

The white out remains, the blindness a probable permanent friend, but he still has hope. Wild and stupid hope maybe, like the first people must have had in order to survive to get them all to this point. And it might have been better if they hadn't, to be honest. That sure would have alleviated a lot of future strife, and also wonder and beauty.

He’s trying to be grateful.

“Anyone there?” he asks.

Nothing but silence on the other end.

He starts to feel around his surroundings, taking his fingers around the immediate area, beginning to form a mental picture. There is fabric over his chest and thighs, wood and cushion below for the cot, and maybe a stool or table to his side. His stomach is calm, his heart beating a steady rhythm, his head (and the voices) at an easy silence.

At the end of the short wander he comes back to his chest, and then rises to his face. There he hovers. He intends to just ghost over and test the waters. To his delight, and great relief, a new bandage has been wrapped there, hiding the terror and confounding his curiosity for now.

“Awake, I see.”

“Not after weeks again, I hope,” he answers.

“No, just the morning,” the creature confirms.

Zack puts his hand back to his side.

“How are you feeling?” the animal asks, just as Zack offers, “What’s your name?”

There’s a minor pause. Zack smiles, a weak one, but it’s something.

“My true name is Nanaki,” the creature answers.

_(...last of his kind…)_

Zack’s smile, and his mental state, fades, hearing Cloud’s voice in that whisper. The white out gone grey grows deeper, finding charcoal, now ash, now pitch. He’s in darkness again, comforting, all-consuming darkness, but something's wrong.

“Are you alright?”

_Was that really his voice?_

“Zack?”

The void that was a minor comfort before now brings pain. Every twinge is a light sparking on out there, a pinhead in the void bursting through brightly, violently. Every pop of colour is a nail driving into his skull; every blip and twinkle and shine a mallet, a sledgehammer, a shotgun blast going off behind phantom eyeballs.

As agonizing as it is, it’s clearing the blindness, bringing back certain definable images and the telltale mako-aura glow. He jerks and kicks and takes the beating, oblivious to anything else. When it passes it leaves sight in its wake, and it’s enough to now make out the three people, and lion-dog, holding him down.

“What the fuck was that?” one of them blurts.

“I don’t know.”

“Is he okay? Should he be here?”

“That looks dangerous, man.”

“Shut your damn mouths,” the unfamiliar voice from before demands.

The others quiet. But not for long.

“He’s all fucked up, Barret. How can he help us?”

“Told you to shut your damn mouth, didn’t I? That’s my problem.”

“Yeah, you’ll have a problem if you keep him here.”

“Zack.” The orphan girl comes into view then, indigo aura like a cool breeze. Immune to the arguing, she once again holds his face in her hands. Any residual pain, fear, or confusion he might have had (about his state, about the voice) clears away with the contact. What remains is still a husk, falling apart, fading away, and that’s worrisome. At least he can see again, thank the Maker, even if that doesn’t mean Hojo’s poison isn’t winning.

“What was all that screaming?”

“We’re fine,” bellows Barret (who now has a name). “Get out! Everyone!”

And they do, not too quietly or quickly.

At last, Barret says to Zack, “I’ve got to go slap some faces around, don’t go anywhere.”

Zack puts a hand on the top of the orphan girl’s head, both of her hands now holding his free one. He takes the next moments as they come, pain, eyesight, terror, or not, because there’s not much else he can do still this exhausted. He's going to pull through. He’s going to survive up to rescuing Cloud, his damsel, his Golden Fleece.

And probably not a moment longer.

 

 

_Status: Captain 2nd Class - Location: NCB2_

Sephiroth closes the distance, grabbing and obtaining both of Cloud’s wrists.

He presses in like a shadow, covering him like a miasma. Even as he’s being dragged back to the bed, giving away temporary power, Cloud knows this is wrong, he’s not doing this, it’s Sephiroth’s hold on him. And not the literal one either, the one in his head, the one wanting to creep over his heart too. Even knowing that, knowing his helplessness, he has little fear in the moment. He is shutting himself down, battening the hatches, bracing for impact.

Sephiroth sits him on the bed and gently lays him back, both hands controlling, urging. He releases one, again moving the many disheveled strands of hair from Cloud’s face. It leaves no buffer between them, forcing Cloud to stare head on. It also allows Sephiroth all the opportunity to worm fully inside his already detaching, wounded soul.

If he likes the fight and the struggle, Cloud will give him something in return. He breathes and calms himself in the moment, ignoring the prickling of goosebumps, the twisting in his guts, the glowing eyes locked in, and the knowledge of what's to come next. He steels himself.

“Do you miss him?” he abruptly asks.

Sephiroth is already wise to the move though, and says nothing, only looking down from his vantage point above. Cloud can’t decipher the expression thanks to the dimness of the room, and that might be reason for concern. He chooses to carry on anyway.

“Did you love him?” he asks. 

“Did you?” Sephiroth retorts.

He’s not shocked by the reply. He swallows and proceeds.

“I do.”

“You did.”

Sephiroth leans down, negating the tense space between them, sealing it with a quick and rough kiss. He is solid weight threatening to grow heavier by the minute, and he does, he soon throws a leg over Cloud's middle to mount him, compressing his hipbones and upper thighs, demolishing any chances for squirming or bucking. The kiss he renews and deepens, demanding access, demanding compliance, stressing his great power.

Cloud’s eye stings and aches, his whole head now, but he still does not give in. He does his very best to dodge and disrupt him, turning his head to either side, breaking their false intimacy. Sephiroth is determined though, and when he comes in the next time, he doesn’t kiss, he bites, catching Cloud’s bottom lip and stilling him. He rolls the captured flesh between his teeth, pinches hard enough to cause tears.

It’s a threat.

It’ll be severed if he resists again.

Cloud knows it to be true. If he’s capable of thinking it, so is Sephiroth.

He gives in.

Sephiroth releases the tenderized lip only to slide his tongue inside Cloud's opened mouth. Advancing his tactics, he secures Cloud's head with his biceps bordering each of his ears, forearms pressed to mattress. Now trapped, little chance for breath or escape, Sephiroth's tongue slips over and under, forcing Cloud's head back and his jaw open, wider and wider, so that he might slither in, deeper and deeper.

Cloud’s panic grows. His body is again revolting, and his heart, not frozen dead this time, is thumping a frantic pace. His blood rushes, the air thin and heady, his focus melting away. He’s getting worked up despite himself, only knowing the warm and wet slide, the tingling sensations he can’t predict or deny. The realization only makes the situation worse. He squirms, and wishes he hadn’t. He twitches his tongue, and wishes he hadn’t.

At last, Sephiroth breaks away.

“You look positively flushed, my dear,” he tells him, voice breathy.

Cloud sneers in return, resisting the urge to wiggle or buck.

It only takes Sephiroth sitting upright to determine his condition.

“Oh, I see,” he exclaims in a gust of air, and rocks his hips, leather riding over thin fabric.

Cloud grits his teeth and fists the sheets.

“Did he ever get to see you like this?” Sephiroth's asks, prodding.

“Shut up,” Cloud snaps, biting back any sound, face flushed. 

Sephiroth feigns a frown. “I'll take that as a no.”

Incensed, Cloud rushes up, rearing wildly. He only gets a forearm brought over his throat for his efforts. He manages to counter though, thanks to some training, and starts focusing on keeping the crush at bay with his hands and arms. His biceps flex and burn with the resistance.

“We can do this one of two ways. You’ll asphyxiate, if I say so,” Sephiroth explains, stressing the reality by stressing the pressure.

Cloud strains, depleted lungs joining the burn.

“You know which one I prefer.”

But the bar is removed.

Cloud, adrenaline on the rampage, rears up again, blind to the outcome, hoping against hope that his aim is true, and it is. His skull connects with Sephiroth's, stars burst, the dimness drops to blackness. He reels, world spinning, but he gets the bastard right where he wanted him.

Sephiroth is holding his head, recovering from the crash.

He actually caused the legend himself pain.

His thrill lives such a short life though. Sephiroth returns the arm bar, bringing his weight down swift and brutal. Taken by the small victory, Cloud is caught off guard and fails to hold him off. His already limited participation in the morning ends there, body dropping limp.

It’s merely a pause in the unwinding events though. Sephiroth isn’t finished with him, not just yet. He revives him (with materia or the undeniable hold he has) and starts the game again.

The room is lit and too bright when Cloud drifts back in. He knows exactly where he is, although he is now half dressed and face down on the stripped bed. His already high panic doubles. He becomes aware of Sephiroth behind him then, the mattress depressing as he moves. He is climbing over him, like a big cat. Cloud can only pray that he thinks he's still out.

"I know you're not," the predator hums, sending a chill down Cloud's naked spine, along with his fingers. "You're all mine, not a soul to help you. You were right to turn on Zack. He seems to lack gumption."

"He’s alive then," Cloud whispers, throat sore.

"If he is, he's wishing he was dead."

"Let me go to him."

"Why? So you can come back to kill me?"

"So we can live our lives! And—"

Cloud tries to roll over but is stayed. He listens to the suggestion.

"Boring. I'd rather you twist and suffer at my discretion. Especially you, poor thing. To cause him the most pain."

"For causing you pain?"

"For refusing greatness."

"Why won't you just kill me?"

"I told you."

_To cause him the most pain._

Cloud swallows, tongue heavy.

"I'm going to do to you what he so badly wants to. The only reason he bothers with you at all."

Cloud freezes, tries calming his heart and his racing thoughts. If he struggles, the outcome will only be made worse. If he lies here and takes it, he will lose an irreplaceable part of himself. Physical or mental, he's going to have to live with the scars. If he lives at all.

He makes a choice and starts lashing out, ready to go for broke, but he only finds the idea melting away, along with his fear, and hate, and any desire to run. He drops to the mattress, limbs loose and pliable, the presence of Sephiroth invading his senses. He isn’t playing anymore, his slimy sway has its claws in him. He will only have strength of will to call upon now.

As he lies inert, Sephiroth removes his remaining clothing, sliding the pieces off with jerks and tugs. He slaps Cloud's bare ass once he’s done, the report sharp, the action stinging.

"Don't... do this," Cloud urges, finding his voice unreliable.

Sephiroth proceeds, paying no mind. He lifts Cloud’s hips, bringing him to his knees and the upright position, ass-end presented. His back is angled, arms resting, face pushed to mattress. Cloud distantly thinks that he's grateful to be looking away when wet fingers invade all at once, spreading him open, rushing to squirm inside. He inhales sharply, no time to brace himself, pain layered over pleasure. His muscles seize, mouth working wordless.

In this haze, he finds his whole body disobeying, beginning to lean into the invasion, wanting more, wanting the friction, going against every innate desire. And Sephiroth only indulges his eagerness, wiggling another digit inside and plunging deeper, forfeiting the crew nearly to the knuckle. Sweat beads and runs, breath wafts and hitches. Cloud moans low in his throat, living in the new and abundant sensation of fullness, even as he’s denying it. Wanting becomes his paramount thought.

The fingers retreat.

Sephiroth is still just a silhouette behind him when he looks, capable of doing that minor movement. Thanks to the lights now being on, he can see that he's bare too, and fully excited. He also notices, allowing his head to drop back to the mattress, that tears have streamed down his face. He can't do anything about those, and they’ll probably flow on as he gasps and whimpers, breathless, legs spread, wanting for nothing else but that stretch back.

_Please. Don’t make me beg._

Sephiroth puts a damp hand on his back, drawing himself closer, hips first. Heat is pouring off him, the only clue as to his distance and intention. When he makes contact, the tip of his cock presses restricted muscle, and Cloud starts, hips jerking away. He is contained by the hand flat on his spine, the firm touch dropping him back into unnatural obedience.

_Please._

Sephiroth grunts and pushes ahead, spearing the muscle, spreading Cloud open, his cock firm yet liquid metal hot as it slides inside, smoothly, filling him just an inch. Cloud breathes and breathes, his body compliant, but he’s losing himself, leaving himself.

It wouldn't be the same story if he had freedom to act. As it is, he only moans and mewls, sounding wounded. His head is dazed and crazed, purpose and calm just a memory. His mind drifts, and he finds he doesn't want to come back if this is the reality.

“You won’t beg?” Sephiroth asks.

Cloud moans, agonized. He can’t fend off the desire, the alien idea put there by his abuser.

He nods, slowly, shakily. 

“What’s that?” Sephiroth asks, retreating.

Cloud bites his tongue, desperate to fight it, but the sudden hurt causes a reactive gasp and his mouth opens, betraying him. A murmur, exactly in the shape of _please_ , drips out.

“Louder,” Sephiroth demands, pushing his depth.

“ _Please_ ,” Cloud whimpers.

Sephiroth presses on, every consuming inch sweet and horrible. He is spreading himself over Cloud, bare chest to back, his own breath labored, sweat mingling. He remains there unmoving, now swallowed to the root, either catching his wind or admiring his work. Either way, the lull doesn't last long enough, and he’s soon drawing back, cock slipping to the tip and relaxed opening. With no pause at all he plunges forward, knocking their hips violently together.

Cloud cries out, raspy, and reaches back to grab for him. He’s driving nails again into the slick flesh of an arm when he catches it. He claws like a drowning man, hisses and moans like a dying animal, no more Cloud than the curtains.

Sephiroth drives on, jerking back only to ram forward and drill in, again and again. He creates a furious pace with furious abandon, working to destroy the mattress, but more likely Cloud, whose thighs are already numbing. He can’t find the air to scream out anymore, he must be sobbing. The bed frame thuds, the mattress protests.

He hardly registers it when Sephiroth breaks minutes later to pull out. He’s not quitting though, he’s rearranging him, pushing him down, turning him over. Cloud has no sway, he can’t move to contest, he is only a vessel. 

Again, legs weak and splayed wide this time, he is forced to look straight at him. Sephiroth quickly re-enters him there (no begging required), bringing their damp faces within inches. He visibly thrills in the pitiful cry he releases.

The glow is undeniable now, his eyes so close, bright as the moon. Cloud feels empty as he looks into them. He knows nothing but Sephiroth, and defeat.

The General picks up where he left off, hips bucking, thrusting, grinding him to the bone. He’s going to rid Cloud of any hope or vestiges of himself, every slide and push doing its job. He’s going to be thorough too, and by the end, Cloud will have fallen so far inside himself he won’t have noticed when Sephiroth eventually finishes. He won’t be aware when he’s handed over (by the bare-naked legend) to a wary (and frankly, stunned) Reno for clean up and damage control. He won’t even know that he appears more like a murder victim of a crime novel, stripped and used, rather than the supposed captain, or survivor, that he is.

He will be checked out.

And he is.

Reno takes in the entirety of the scene once Sephiroth has dressed and gone. He hisses at the quieted room, the humid air, the motionless body left crooked on the equally crooked mattress.

“ _Fuck_.”


	18. Chapter 18

_Status: Bodyguard - Location: Strife’s bedroom_

He doesn’t want to move him at first, afraid to do any more damage.

Instead, he stands stiff and unmoving for longer than he probably should have, still having trouble processing the entire scene, even if he listened to it for the last half hour. He was alone for such an early shift, Vegas still back in their room, sleeping or reading. He was told to sit and do nothing by a very intimidating individual (who also outranks him across the board). So he did, and twiddled his thumbs and flinched every time Cloud cried out.

He will eventually have to tackle it though, no matter how he looks at it, or regrets it. After some doing, and one botched attempt, he finally does commit, taking that first step forward. If he’s dead, it’s not like he hasn’t been around his fair share of cadavers.

_Buck up, man. Get it done. Forget you ever liked him, wanted him, or even, sort of, tried to help him, and just do your job. You like your job._

He advances to the bed, coming to the left side of the mattress and where Cloud’s head hangs over the edge, lifeless. He tries to put aside his nudity and the jealousy nipping. He isn’t going to admire him, or fantasize one sultry inch. And, he sure as hell won’t acknowledge the shame for standing by, or toying with him, just in case the outcome hasn’t been fatal.

His super blond hair is a tangled mess, looking bushy and dry, even as it rests limply and sweat soaked. It hides the majority of his turned face from view, buffering the illusion that he could just be sleeping and this is all a terrible misunderstanding. His bare spine and shoulders are smooth and clean, speckled only by sweat. What is hidden underneath remains to be seen, and Reno is somewhat relieved. Sephiroth has been unkind in other areas, and the closer he gets the easier he’s seeing the results of their violent meeting.

The back of his thighs, his (nice) ass, his wrists, and above his collarbone, they’re all swelling or bruising, and there, under his narrow and equally purple-dappled hips, a damp halo wets the mattress. Sephiroth did his business and left with the smell still hanging heavy in the air. Left him used and abused, and didn’t take a second look. This isn’t what he signed up for.

_You liked your job._

Reno reaches out an unsteady hand, reluctant fingers slowly coming to Cloud's crown and the knots and mess there. He figures, and wants, to brush the hair away and check for signs of life. He hasn’t been able to note breathing, based off of how still he lies. He’s moving closer, leaning down, and as soon as he makes the slightest contact, a ghost of a touch, Cloud is alive and bolting upright, and quickly flops backwards off the mattress.

_Thud._

Reno jumps back himself. "Shit!" he yells, and then, "Are you okay?"

He can't see him, but he sure can hear him. He’s moaning, and whining, and something else. As he listens, stepping closer, heading around the bed to bring him into view, he realizes he’s saying words, but more specifically, he’s rambling.

Reno should slow down, rethink some of his life choices. What he is presented with when he clears the bed doesn’t improve his deflated morale or growing sense of shame. No, not at all.

Cloud is a crumpled body. He’s folded over himself, flat out on the floor, shoulders quaking and shaking, face and hair pressed to carpet. He’s in a groveling type position, _cowering_ , and still ranting, whispering, chanting between his hitching gasps and moans. Reno can’t make it out.

“Hey? Cloud?”

He hunches low on his knees, coming down to Cloud’s level, and starts to creep over. He clears the small bridge between them a section at a time, taking it easy. Once within range, an arm’s length away, Cloud still moaning and face down, Reno reaches a hand out, going for his presented shoulder. He only intends to comfort and ease, his palm pressing in, but Cloud reacts badly. He becomes an eruption of limbs and knee jerks, and one heck of a hard skull. The rambles turn to shrieks and cries. He rises.

Reno retracts the hand and follows suit, swiftly backing away, somehow avoiding permanent damage. But, he can hear it now. He can make out the few words laced into his frenzy. It’s terrible, and it’s sickening, and Reno knows more guilt than he will ever again in his short, misled life.

 _Please, please, please, no, no_ , Cloud is whining, over and over. He’s begging for him to stop, to back away, to end the misery. And now he’s making it worse, adding more fuel to the fire by lifting his chin. His tangled curtain of hair parts, and Reno is able to make out one eye. It’s wide and wild, distant, different, and it pins him. He’s seeing him as if he’s been struck by hysterical blindness or his most mortal fear. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he promises.

But, he might be stuck. It’s calm him down or fend him off. Or, because he likes to have options, knock him out and run away, out the door, down the hall, and back to Vegas. He shouldn’t get closer, not just yet. He shouldn’t skip out either, but he won’t be able to listen to his pitiful pleading, if it keeps up much longer.

As it is, he’s not showing signs of tire, just stalwart panic. He pleads and begs, coughs and swallows, unseeing, head shaking, arms waving. _No, no, please, please_. And it’s killing Reno, really digging under his skin and unsettling his foundation. He’s daydreamed about being the cause of sounds like that, but not like this, never like this. He can’t do this.

If he advances he will fight and claw, but not for long. If he lets off he might be here all day, waiting for him to wind down. He might as well treat him like a wild, injured animal. He’ll creep in, pounce, hold him down, and let him thrash it out until he’s done and weak and easy to transport. He should get some help from his brother first. No matter how he turns it, he’s going to get him out of here. He’s going to make up for this one. Fuck Sephiroth. Fuck this job. He should have helped sooner. He’s a selfish, cold bastard.

At least, he’s not the guy that did this to him. But, he is the guy that allowed that guy to do this to him. So, he’s not looking much better. He might even be worse. As a way of atoning, he will stop this noise, and this sorrow, and this terror. Even if he doesn't know how to yet, or makes it worse before getting there by ignoring his better judgment, and his promise.

He’s furious with Sephiroth, himself, Shinra, and every fucking injustice he’s ever had to choke down or carry out for them. He moves in, saying soft words, and grabs for Cloud. He’s hoping to embrace him into sanity. The sweat on his flesh counters his claim, and he easily slips away. Sobbing cries become choked gasps as they struggle. Cloud thrashes and wails, showing no restraint or presence.

But, Reno is not swayed. He holds on, fighting with himself as much as with him. He’s not going to harm him, or give up so soon. Their bodies meet and slide and twist, almost tumbling to the bed, into a wall, a bedside table. He dances and dodges thrown elbows, knees, fists. In this shuffle, Cloud manages to deflect him before he drops back to the floor, getting him straight to the balls.

Reno doubles over and retreats, back-peddling to mid-room. He takes the very necessary moment to check his misused assets, and finds them intact but sore. He hopes to avoid anymore damage or aggravation from here, but he’s already realizing he’s lost too much ground. He will have to calm him without touching him, if he can. Which is impossible, or at least improbable, for someone of his skill set.

Cloud is bare and slick and freaking the fuck out. How in the hell is he supposed to do this? Why in the hell is he having to do this?

_It's pay back._

Cloud pushes himself into a corner of the room.

Reno must contemplate, and make no more half-cocked advancements. He might just play out the events as they come, and pray for something or someone to save him before he has to take action. But, that also must have been the very thought process Cloud had in order to carry him through his ordeal with Sephiroth. And look how well that turned out.

He lets him cower and hide, and he calms after several minutes of being left alone. His miserable pleading is brought to a whisper. His chest rises and falls steadily, trying to catch up every lost breath. His face is again hidden and unreadable, the only visible part, his hanging and panting mouth. Under that, the angry bruise runs along his throat, contrasted starkly against flushed flesh.

"You're okay now." Reno keeps his voice soft. "You're safe. He's gone."

Cloud shakes his head, all that hair flicking and shifting. He draws in his legs.

"He's a bastard, man. Really. As crazy as they come, but he's gone. It’s just me, Reno. Your pal. It's cool. Ease it down a notch. Take a good breath. Sorry I rushed you. I’m really stupid and rash, and not good with this kind of stuff. I never even had a goldfish. Take it easy."

After getting no response, he pushes on. Talking is more his style.

"You know me. I always hit on you, remember? I kind of feel shitty about that now. Guess I get to make up for it, huh? Fuck. I’ve heard that Sephiroth has some kind of rap sheet, dude. Never thought I’d be the one cleaning up after it, or that it would all be one hundred percent true. I’ve got enough problems to deal with on my end. I’m no saint either. Vegas kept telling me, man. If I didn’t stop screwing around they’d find out, and…”

He’s not tracking his surroundings. He’s too busy trying to calm him with conversation and readjusting his sore assets to notice that Cloud’s crawling over. His pleas paused, his focus returned. Naturally, Reno put the possibility of him wanting to be anywhere near him out of his mind. Especially after his stunning lack of self control and foresight, and Sephiroth.

He continues his own sort of rambling, alerted to the invasion only by the change of heat in the air, and the sudden wafting smell of sweat, and struggle, and sex. He looks over to look him straight in his two wide and wet eyes. He finds them opposing colours, when they should both be liquid blue. He wouldn’t miss such a thing.

“What happ—”

“Reno?” Cloud asks, voice thin as vapor.

 

 

_Status: Unknown - Location: Unknown_

He’s going to get up.

Whether he wants to or not, whether he can or not, he’s going to get up. Lying still even for this long (pushing a day) has made his mutinous muscles stiff and noncompliant. He is sore to the bone, brittle and breaking, corroded, but he’s going to get up. And he forces himself to, driving through the grueling moment of weakness, sitting himself upright on the cot.

It must be night. Not a soul is around, and he’s having one hell of a time seeing his surroundings. Wherever they are, this safe place, it must be away from the city. There is very little of any mako glow. They could be underground, or miles away. Either way, things are much harder to pick out dipped in night. There are no defined auras or outlines like before. He’s getting only hints, and those are shifting always in the foggy black, like ocean water sloshing. It’s not sight. It’s not even a negative photograph in a dark room. It’s seasickness.

He refuses to lie down, he throws his legs over the side of the cot, meeting the floor and planting two feet. He flexes his calves and thighs, lifting himself again, rising to stand, taking the success with the burn and the nausea. The head rush that follows nearly sends him right back down, but he stabilizes. He then extends his right leg and makes to walk right out of there.

“You don’t listen that great, do you?”

Zack frowns.

Barret’s aura is much like wheat blowing in the wind, light tan, sandy. Zack’s never seen a field of wheat before, but this is without a doubt the colour, this is the one. He hadn’t noticed it before, when he was learning names and having an attack, but he’s seeing it now.

“I can’t stay any longer,” he says, and then he’s spilling his guts. “I’ve got to get to him. If it’s the last fucking thing I do. And it will be. I’m not going to make it longer than a few days. I know it. I can feel it breaking me down. Let me go, dammit. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

Barret sighs in a commiserating way, but he doesn’t make to move, and that outrages Zack, the tidal wave of emotion surprising. “I can still beat your ass,” he threatens.

Barret outright laughs. “I wouldn’t feel too good about taking down a blind guy.”

Zack bares his teeth and sneers, fists clench. “I see you clear as day,” he warns.

Barret seems taken by that, refraining his next comment to step to the side, quickly and quietly, expecting the play to throw him for a loop. But, Zack only follows him with his head, every step, making it very obvious he’s being tracked by said blind guy.

“That some kind of trick?” Barret asks, crossing his arms.

“Let me leave,” Zack demands.

“I can’t call myself a good man and let you get yourself, and that kid, killed.”

“You’re killing us by keeping me here!”

Barret makes another move, and it’s to step back.

Zack’s substitute sight is rippling to the beat in his head. He can’t read expressions well so he imagines one for him, and he comes up with fear, and that fear feeds his conviction and his building rage. He advances, taking a step, and another, closing the gap. He’s ready to design free passage out of here by physical finesse, but those few defiant steps are all he gets.

“Relax,” Barret offers, bringing up his hands. “Just relax. I want to help you. You make a very convincing case. If I can’t keep you here, which I know I can’t... I’m going with you. And so is Nanaki. We’ve already talked about it. You’re at a huge disadvantage. Let us watch your back.”

Zack’s rage deflates. He is so taken by the kindness of the act it doesn’t process at first. He can’t be serious. There must be some kind of catch. Something’s going to go wrong. He’s going to slam him with terrible news. Never let him leave. Fight him to bone and gristle.

It never crossed his mind that anyone would want to join him.

 

 

_Status: Bodyguard - Location: Strife’s bedroom_

"Yes," Reno responds, too distracted to applaud the development. 

The room’s lights are cutting out. There is a second of complete darkness and confusion, and then red bulbs cycle on, pulsing along the room’s baseboards like a heartbeat, filling the nothing that was, indicating urgency, throwing Reno’s already ruined morning into a state of base-wide panic. Whining sirens join the fray.

"Get something on, we gotta go,” he orders Cloud. “Think I know what's going on. We gotta go.” Now on high alert, he rushes to his feet. 

“Sephiroth…” Cloud begins, trying to say more, but Reno interjects.

“Exactly,” he says, confirming what was probably not his intention. He grabs Cloud’s bare arm, meeting no resistance, and pushes him towards his wardrobe. “Go! Get dressed. We’ve got to get my brother.”

Thankfully, Cloud listens, stumbling over and starting to find his clothes. He acts in no huge rush though, not comprehending the situation even as it screams and throbs around him. He hardly looks stable, arms lifting shakily, movements measured but restrained.

Reno half watches, the rest of him focuses on contacting Vegas by cellphone.

__

> _whats goin on?_

He gets a response just as Cloud completes the job, pulling a grey tank top over his head to match his sweatpants.

__

> _our room. 5 min._

“Come on,” Reno says, taking Cloud’s shoulder and pushing him forward.

With him no longer nude, or begging, or half crazy, he can relax some. If it had been any other day, and any other fucking person than Sephiroth, he might have had a chance with a sleeping Cloud. But, no, that asshole had to go and screw up his day, leave his responsibility and main interest a mess, and then, if this feeling is correct, rampage it out like a lunatic.

_What a massive jerk._

A voice over the intercom is raving about evacuation procedures and staying in groups. Reno ignores it, herding Cloud from the bedroom to the living room and straight to the door out, taking no detours. He pauses when they get there, checking Cloud (lights on, nobody home) and his firearms (clips loaded, safeties off).

He opens the door enough to peak out, assessing the corridor outside. It’s clear and dark, but for the red emergency lights. He glances to Cloud again, just to check bases, and then heads out, tugging him along behind.

“Stay with me,” he urges, quickly picking up the pace.

They begin to jog and soon come to a path diverging, a branch in the corridors. Reno slows, being cautious, but he is only rewarded for his actions by someone slamming into him from the crossing direction. This someone, a grunt, pays him little mind as he collects himself from the floor. He doesn’t apologize or return eye contact, he bolts down the hall they just came from.

Reno curses and tries not to feel too stressed. He knows time is limited, and the reason for the guy’s panic. Cloud stands by, having dodged the collision, no understanding visible on his blank face. Reno grabs his wrist and pulls him on, taking him down the grunt’s corridor.

If he runs into Sephiroth in such an enclosed space he’s sure as shit not going to make enough of an end to warrant being remembered, or sung about in bars. He’ll just be another body slung over the mattress to Sephiroth, one more tally mark. He’ll do his damnedest despite. He has two .45’s to help him with that. But, what he really needs is his brother.

Sephiroth could be hiding behind any door, or at the end of any adjacent hallway. Reno only runs faster, picking up his feet, eager to meet him if that’s his destiny. He’s not fearful. He learned long ago that if he gave fear any sort of power over him he would fight no more, and he would die a coward, or worse. 

They make it down the hallway to his and Vegas’ room with no more surprise encounters, or any sightings of the General. He doesn’t have to protect Cloud, or make a last stand. He knocks four times at the door, swift and sure; a signal for his brother inside. The door opens a crack and he pushes it the rest of the way, dragging Cloud inside with him.

They are accepted into darkness, and temporary sanctuary.

 

 

_Status: Unknown - Location: Unknown_

“Why Nanaki?” Zack asks. He’s standing where he stopped, acting as casual as someone not trying to break out and run off to rescue his mate. He stretches a hand back to run it through his hair. But, there isn’t any hair for his hand to run through, it glides along bristling new growth and scalp. He had forgotten they shaved him. He quickly drops the hand.

“He met Cloud. He wants to help you, brother.”

“He _met_ him?”

Barret nods. “We had him in their base.”

“You couldn’t have grabbed him then?” Zack asks, tone scathing, anger threatening.

“He would have been compromised. Sephiroth kept him close.”

Zack grimaces, cooling his temper, calming his distrust. He chooses not to grill him like he might have grilled one of his men. It takes a monumental force, and he needs to sit down by the end. He staggers backwards to the cot, now an old friend.

“We’re already compromised,” Zack says.

“Not true,” Barret interjects. “We might have a man inside. He’s a hell of a good shot at getting Cloud out of there, too. If we don’t handle it properly though, he might just make him disappear again. He doesn’t leave his side, not for more than a few minutes at a time. He seems to be very protective of your things.”

Zack says nothing to this, but he nods.

“If we can contact him from the inside,” Barret continues, “you might have your chance. If you can convince him of your relationship, I guess. But, you are Zack Fair.”

“Sounds good enough to me,” Zack admits, ignoring the last comment. “How far are we from the city?”

“We’re under it,” Barret explains.

“Under?”

“Abandoned sewer systems. If you can wait another hour, I’ll get Nanaki going, find us some supplies and shit, try to get word out to our guy, and then we can split. Sound good?”

“Damn straight,” Zack agrees.

He’s hopeful, even if his body is demanding his attention and his stomach is turning and churning. And, as of only moments ago, he’s almost certain Cloud’s voice is the one whispering through his head like a distant wind. It’s a voice he doesn’t want to get louder, but he can’t bear to have it silenced either, lest he forget what he sounds like.

As it grows clearer and Barret makes his exit, leaving him alone, in darkness and in doubt, he leans over his knees to hold his head in his hands. Cloud’s voice rises, becoming audible, insistent, frantic and begging. Zack prays for the end, and relief.

(... _please, please, please_ …)

“I hear you…” he mutters.

 

 

_Status: Bodyguard - Location: Assigned room_

They were better off in the hallway.

The room is darkened, and then not, that alarm heartbeat strobing by, illuminating the contents and the occupants in crimson. Cloud starts pulling hard against his grip by the first pass, the flash dropping complete darkness in its wake. Reno counters the tug and squints, not sure of what he saw the first time, but by the next pass, seconds later, he's positive.

There are two figures opposing them, when there should only be Vegas. The last person Reno was hoping to find here, and it’s Sephiroth, as tall as Alexander itself, that mile-long sword of his at the ready, gleaming against the intermittent blushing glare. He stands with his brother in the center of the room, only feet away.

It looks like Reno will get his stand-off _and_ his memorial bar song after all. His heart thumps up the rate, mimicking the sirens and the pulse and the panic. His fingers itch to reach for his guns. His jaw clicks down tight. He readies himself, but he’s never been so unsure.

Cloud gets free of his loosened grip about then, and turns to open the door they just came through. That would have been fine, not a problem, but the action is the cue that sends things into motion, and Reno's world upside down.

He pulls his guns, bringing them both out from the holster at his lower back, and levels them dead center on the intruder. Before he can even consider firing though, Reno is disarmed by the flick of Sephiroth’s Masamune.

Both guns leave his hands and fly into the blackout. One of them fires, flash photography, the muzzle flare just a blink in the void. Following his lead, Vegas starts his own attack, jabbing an elbow into Sephiroth’s sternum, sending him staggering backwards.

During all of this, Cloud has made his escape, the opened door just now clicking shut. Sirens scream on, red lights blink. He will get lost running like a mad man through the base. He might have known Sephiroth was there even before Reno saw him, but he doesn’t know NCB2.

Reno can’t, and won’t, be bothered with him any longer though. Him and his brother are trapped in here with a real threat, and before he has time to make a clever move, or recover (his fingers throbbing from the disarm), that brother is shoved to his knees at the bastard’s feet, the cutting edge of his nefarious SOLDIER’s blade snug under exposed throat.

"Get Cloud," Vegas manages to say, between the noise and the sword.

Reno instinctively shakes his head. He won't have the option to deny it again though, Sephiroth is sealing his fate, making it his permanent problem. He draws the blade across Vegas' throat, cutting a clean line, spilling his contents. The blood that rushes out is black tar in the red lights.

Reno gives himself no time to mourn, he dives for his guns.

His ballad will be a raucous battle theme.


	19. Chapter 19

_Status: General, SOLDIER 1st Class - Location: Withheld_

His initial impression of Zack is that he was going to be easy.

When he first came to Shinra and breached the SOLDIER classes, Zack was still naive and fresh, despite his inherent skill; the world hadn’t yet gotten its fingers into him. And that was the first promising spark that drew Sephiroth. It didn’t help that he looked like something out of a movie either, all black hair, broad shoulders and deep blue eyes. His desperate aspiration to be a hero, and immediate obsession with yours truly, should have only made him an easier target too. But, he was anything but easy. He was soft, loyal, and noble to a fault. 

_His flesh is smooth, toned, and hot to the touch. Every inch of him wants Sephiroth to move closer, he can see it, but Sephiroth does not. He hangs there, on the edge, dangling that power over him, that mortal hold, and denies satisfaction or relief, showing no kind of pity. Zack frowns as a result, turning his head, and then, there it is, Sephiroth reaches to turn his head right back. Leather glove creaking, he takes his mouth, kissing him hard, harder, their teeth clicking._

In the youth of Zack’s career, the Director assigned him several missions with Sephiroth. And because of the high success rates of their joined missions, and their quick cooperation (which had never happened before in the history of anyone’s career), Sephiroth was tasked with grooming Zack into becoming a top-shelf 1st Class soldier. And Zack, he was unwittingly given the impossible feat of leveling out his defiant (and steadily unhinging) superior.

They spend less than five minutes away from each other after that decision is made. Over a calm week, but only on the days he wasn’t needed somewhere else, Sephiroth developed the unfamiliar pleasure of waking up to Zack’s equally calm face.

_But, he always has a surprise for him. He bites him on the throat, right under his strong jawline. Zack jolts awake and makes to fight back, but he quickly relents, relaxing into the digging sensation, relaxing into Sephiroth. Always a surprise, one way or another. That might be why Zack grows wary of him so quickly. Sephiroth never indulges him the feeling of independence or peace for long. He’s not much accustomed to those, even if his partner is willing to teach him._

Zack was eager, and eager to prove that eagerness. He rained Sephiroth with easy compliments and awe, and Sephiroth ate up that admiration and his secret longing, and fully disputed he was ever feeling love, or kindness, or softening in tandem. He started bringing him to his bed every night because he was lonely, and bored, not because he loved him. They didn’t share dwellings at that point, but soon Zack never returned to his.

_He melts every time he touches him. He moans and rises up, rolls his eyes to the very back of his skull. He widens his thighs and urges him on in such salacious ways, pleading, and pulling, gnawing with teeth, digging with hands, palms, fingers. He rolls his hips just right, breath gusting to intense and building rhythms._

_He’s always known how to unsettle him._

He saw a side of Zack no one will see again. He dragged and teased it out every chance they were alone, and, sometimes when they weren’t. And then he killed it. He was, and still is, anything but accommodating. He’s twisted and unloveable (even if that wasn’t always the case). He’s learned to accept his nature and not deny it, taking what he wanted and needed. And to his undoing, he has always needed and wanted Zack to know defeat.

Zack might have been eager in the beginning, but he was never easily taken unless by surprise. Defying his morals was Sephiroth’s first and best weapon against him. He always had those, and his sticky compassion, and he was, otherwise, a dominant male. Two dominant males usually fought to the death, right? That had always been part of the challenge.

_It starts with extra force, and then bruises, bites, cuts, and finally escalates into threats and punishment. It was always there, swelling, but he still so suddenly finds himself twisting Zack’s arm behind his back just as he’s taking him from behind. Every thrust and jerk pulls the arm further out of the socket, wrenching it higher up the line of his back._

_Zack only begs the louder, accepting the strain, asking for more. He’s taken every one of Sephiroth’s jabs and elbows up to this point. He’s walked off every sore rib and stiff muscle. Sephiroth has no reason to believe he won’t continue the trend._

_His psychosis becomes like a dam broken. He denies Zack every freedom, allowing him out of their rooms only in his company or for missions. He starts watching who he talks to, looks at, brushes by in the hallways. His possessiveness, paranoia, and rage are his only aspects. He’s getting sloppy, confused, fearful; he’s slipping through the cracks._

His instability and abilities are things he’d known about since he was a child. His nursery was Shinra and all its facilities. He didn’t grow up knowing a mother or a father, he’s known metal and power and blood from day one, and not much else. He was too smart for Shinra’s (and possibly his own) good and had successfully hidden his disorders. Until meeting Zack he had no reason to believe he might lose control. Too bad he turned out to be one of the two people to ever defy him like he did (and still does). No one squirmed, or submitted, or ever loved him like he did. It was such a small period of time, but he helped him become true to himself.

_Just under a month into their partnership and Zack has drawn away from him. He no longer showers him with that same awe or admiration, or any brand of longing. He puts up a wall and cowers behind it, even as his face stays smooth and even, and his cries so similar. Sephiroth sees how tortured and twisted he’s gotten inside. He’s watching his impending break down, just as he’s having one of his own. That leads him to his final mistake. And final lesson._

_I'll have you and your family terminated if you tell anyone about this._

_You can abuse and corral, prod and torture, tease and tear down Zack all you wanted... but you never threatened his loved ones._

He devastated yet resurrected Cloud that morning after the ceremony. He brought him back, but as a rumour, silent and pliant, and with a little surprise attached. Zack will have a hard time breaching or correcting this one, based only off of his love for him. He won’t succumb or drop to the levels necessary in order to save him. He would rather die than cause him that pain.

Don’t get things wrong though, Sephiroth didn’t leave their encounter untouched. He hasn’t been able to reign himself in since leaving his bedroom. He’s been disconnected and killing on a whim, and he doesn’t have a good enough reason to stop. Not anymore.

A great deal of his already thinning presence poured into Cloud. He took up partial home in his head, hitchhiking inside that already false eyeball he gave him during their first meeting. Even as he was emptying him, he was filling him. That’s left him weak and vulnerable. He might have the advantage to win the war, but he’s going to lose the battle.

Reno exceeds his expectations. He doesn’t crumble or cry out and give up when his brother collapses, he jumps into action and launches for one of his lost guns. Sephiroth gives him the opportunity to arm himself, but he doesn’t give him the freedom to fire. He rushes in, red lights dropping low to jump right back on, Reno just now rising from the floor. He rushes in and runs him through, sending Masamune into the plaster, the metal, his shoulder, and the corridor outside. He pins him to the wall, down to the hilt, almost too high for his feet to reach the floor.

Caught there, Reno writhes and winces, kicks his feet. He reaches for the blade, trying to alleviate the bite but is unable. He doesn’t end his battle there though, he lifts his firearm next, using his good hand, and sends a round into Sephiroth’s gut, and then another. The flashes are weak but the report could deafen. The whole process takes only a few seconds.

They both pause, taken by the outcome.

Sephiroth will have to retreat. He shows no reaction to the wounds, only retracts to tear his sword from the wall, making sure to draw it out slowly, and wiggling it by the end, causing Reno the most torture. He groans and protests, dropping his gun, tossing his head in a compulsive, pain-stricken way. He’ll be sure to bleed out in minutes with the wound where it is, tickling his subclavian artery. Movement is his enemy. He’s already lost so much spunk.

Blade back in hand, Sephiroth gives him another parting gift: a shove from his boot. The motion sends the bodyguard, now just a body, to the floor. He lands in the cooling pool of his brother’s blood, face down. He slides and writhes, trying to stand. His injured shoulder and severed fingers make that difficult. As Sephiroth steps away, heading for the exit, he claws after him, cursing.

Sephiroth smiles in profile, looking back over his shoulder. He closes the door, leaving Reno to die in the company of his brother’s corpse. He might be aware of the bullet holes, but he is immune. They can carry on gushing fluid down his abdomen and into his boots to squelch all they want. The damage would be fatal to someone not so abnormal, or busy, but luckily he is abnormal, and more aware of Cloud somewhere far off, hiding in a corner. Hiding huddled, lost, whimpering and frantic. He can feel him, not the continual drain of blood loss, or the growing chill in the air. He tastes his breath, his panic, and the sweat hot on his flesh.

He won’t get the opportunity to surprise him though, like he would have had Reno cooperated. He might not feel them, and they might not be affecting his overall mood, but he is now more weakened because of the bullet wounds. He has to find shelter and recoup, or face temporary complications, or worse. He’s not certain what could happen.

His thinness of state is a result of spreading himself too far across the board. If someone feisty tried to stop him now, they could do serious damage. It’s been a gamble, this mental hitchhiking, but it’s also been the deciding advantage he’s needed against Zack. Using friends as pawns will always give his tactics a personal touch, and that extra devious edge. Every last one has been a deranged love letter.

He has plenty more to write.

 

 

_Status: Unknown - Location: Unknown_

They start the process of getting on with the process. It’s like suiting up for Shinra all over again. The high stress and anticipation before the beginning of a mission so familiar. He knows these feelings, these paces, and it’s steadying. But, it’s also enough to make his sensitive stomach turn inside out. He has to muscle down the anxiety and the exhaustion, masking the severity of his condition. If he was anybody else, he might not be conscious, but here he stands anyway, only observing their preparations. He knows his own plan and his own objective by heart.

They might not be well-organized or well-funded, but the Shinra resistance sure has panache. Zack can respect that. They’re grouping up in the main room (the old sewer system’s water treatment center) to supply Barret, Nanaki and himself. They’re pooling together, offering supplies from their own stockpiles and cupboards, laying them out like a merchant's spread. They dress Zack with clothes right off their own backs and offer words of encouragement. In the noise and shift of items, he’s handed a pistol, but it’s quickly taken away.

He chuckles despite himself, and finds it difficult to stop.

_(...no, no, please…)_

He winces, his whole head conspiring against him.

“You alright?” Nanaki asks.

“As I’m gonna be,” he answers, rubbing his temple.

“Do you want to go over it one more time?”

He’s talking about the plan they’ve already drilled into him in the last thirty minutes. He was disinterested then, and must have projected it, because they still haven’t quit drilling him. Nanaki has been his shadow since getting the okay from Barret, and it’s an annoyance at best. He means well, but Zack doesn't need or want for a guide dog.

_(...what did he do to you?...)_

“No, man. I’m good. Let’s just get this show on the road. I’m fucking tired and dying.”

Nanaki does not reply.

Zack gnashes his teeth and turns away from the animal. The Cloud in his head is not pulling any punches. He was already on edge because of everything else. His heart is refusing to calm; muscles cramping. But, he sees it then, through the throng of bodies and warring colours it shines, and it's not a person, or electrical, or living in any sort of way. It's about the length of a refrigerator (a fluorescent sky-blue refrigerator), and it makes him forget his struggles.

“Is that a sword?” Zack asks.

_(...what do you want with me?...)_

Nanaki’s charms clang. “Yes.” And then he double-takes. “You can see that?”

“That’s not the point,” Zack says, stepping forward. “I want that sword.”

“Zack…” Nanaki says, trailing off, tone rather parental.

The item is resting on the ground at the crowd’s feet, part of the pooled weapons and resources for their mission. Breaking from the trio, Zack advances to the group surrounding it, and when he’s close enough, he asks the nearest ethereal glow, “Is that yours?”

“It’s my uncle’s,” a voice answers.

“Where is he?” Zack asks, turning to the speaker, a faded orange glimmer.

“He died in the first Wutai War.”

_(...I forget... you're in SOLDIER...)_

Zack winces, panning downward, attempting to inspect the sword. He can now see the weapon is a mess, dented and rusted, but she’s beautiful too, and all lit up just for him. He has needed a good sword since losing his after that first failed attempted against Sephiroth.

“Can I take her into battle?” he blurts.

The glimmer seems to struggle with the idea, not speaking for a short time afterward. “It’s a family heirloom…” he starts. “But, it _is_ pretty heavy… and it should be on the battlefield… That’s why I even lugged it out, but.”

“I won’t get her any dirtier than she already is,” Zack promises.

“How will you…" Orange glimmer means to ask how he will use it given his handicap, but trails off into silence.

Zack eases the uncomfortable lull, replying, “I’m a soldier.” Because he always will be.

And, that’s good enough for the sword's keeper. It must be his lucky day (maybe his final day). He gladly gathers the heirloom sword, thanking the orange glow thrice over. He tosses the hulking thing over his shoulder to more easily handle the weight and heads back to join with Barret. He figures that’s the best news he’s going to get today, or over his lifetime, but then his attention is again diverted. It’s a smell this time, not a glow, the distinct aroma of something that will improve his anxiety. He breaks from their path again, stepping away without warning.

Nanaki hisses and complains after him.

“Excuse me,” Zack says.

The expression must be shock, even though they’ve been standing there the entire time, watching the whole scene spill out. The jade aura quivers and shifts away from his sudden intrusion, wanting to flick behind a red brick haze to its left, probably a friend or relative.

Zack doesn’t realize it, but he’s an intimidating sight. Tall, bandaged blind, and now armed. He’s bruised and beaten and shaved down, to the tuft, to the marrow, to the raggedy last thread. All clenched teeth and straining control, shaking fingers, quivering suspense.

“Yes?” jade aura returns.

“Could I get a drag off that?” Zack points to the cigarette.

The wisp looks down to its poised hand (just smoking green tendrils, mocking the actual smoke from the cigarette Zack can’t make out at all) and the article in question smoldering there, and he nearly drops it. “Y-yes. You can have it,” jade aura stutters, pushing it into Zack’s hand and then stepping far back, melting into the mix.

The first drag is always the best, even if it is a menthol. He hadn’t honestly thought about them once since waking up down here. He must be losing touch. He would still really hate for his last cigarette to be mentholated. That would just be the worst kind of farewell to the best and worst kind of habit. But, beggars can’t be choosers. 

It’s too bad they don’t have any decent materia between the lot of them either. They’re harder to come by these days though. Almost as hard as a warm bed, justice, peace, and enough additive-free cigarettes. Shinra confiscates whatever they come across, and they make the rest.

He inhales and lets the smoke jet out of his nostrils as they again walk back to Barret (for real this time). Nanaki is in toe, tail probably swishing an aggravated arc.

“Okay!” Barret shouts then. He’s talking to all his grouped followers. Everyone turns and listens to their leader. “Stay quiet. Stay low. We’ll be back with some good news by nightfall.”

The group cheers, women and children too. Everyone must be there, crowded inside what Barret called the water house, ready to send them off. The busy workings of a society, complete with gangways and platforms and tunnels and tents. Zack would normally only have been imagining the full picture, but that’s not the case now. Thanks to the mob of people collected he can see a kaleidoscope of hues and shades and tones, meeting, melting and mixing one into the other, a twirling nebula. Rainbow vapor, smudging wisps. The concentration is magnificent and bright enough to light the hideout enough as to appreciate, instead of fabricate.

In the swirl he can still pick out the lily blue of Abby’s aura. He waves to the orphan girl, but he doesn’t look back when they finally set out seconds later (supplies, sword and cigarette in hand). He doesn’t stop when he hears her shout out his name either. He already said his goodbyes. After he spoke with Barret that morning she came to see him.

_I’m going to be leaving. I have to save my damsel in distress._

_Is she pretty?_

_The most beautiful thing I've ever seen._

She’s not crying out his name anymore, they’re too far off to hear. Once they get into the outer tunnels below they’ll begin the ascension into the slums above. From there they will enter Midgar itself, and lastly, Shinra Tower. The trek ahead is going to be interesting and difficult for Zack, but he’s got this. He’s not wracked by pain, screaming, thrashing, or comatose. And he’s not alone, even if he could almost pass as vapor himself, or a spectral observer. He shifts the giant sword to his left shoulder and takes the last drag from his borrowed cigarette.

_(...why do you... trouble yourself with me?...)_

It's time to get Cloud.

 

 

_Status: Bodyguard - Location: NCB2, corridors_

_Reno?_

Cloud’s voice, a memory.

He’s still seeing red, but that might now be because of the cold blood stuck on his face and in his eyes, and not the fire alarm at all. He can hardly hear that noise anymore, his head too cotton packed and derailed. That might also be the ocean rising, caught in his ears.

He stumbles to the floor, hands reaching out but sliding wetly down the closest wall, losing purchase. They leave a long black trail down to his arm. He coughs a wet spray and leans his shoulder into the firm surface, taking just a moment, only a moment. He soon continues forward, dragging his broken body, nudging himself along with that shoulder. His legs won’t support him any longer, and he doesn’t know if this pathetic crawling will either, but he’s going to try.

He’s going to find Cloud.

His vision is blurring, sliding, because he’s falling, flopping on his face again. He rolls to his back and stares up at the ceiling. The sirens stopped decades ago but the blackout and red lights remain. He wouldn’t be able to see anyway, thanks to the mess over his face. He blinks and blinks, not willing to clear away anything with his hands. He can’t feel his hands. He has the sneaking suspicion he might not have hands. And he’s not going to look. He’s going to… roll…

Scream out, and lock up.

Reno grunts, the sound again wet. He’s dying slower than his brother. And that’s just fine by him. Vegas was the bastion of right and wrong between them. He was the light side, Reno the dark. It’s only fitting that he was taken smoothly and Reno is being dragged through the mud.

He coughs, warmth rushing his mouth, bringing a mild copper tang. He rolls successfully onto his belly, hissing and wincing all the way, but now he can try to maneuver down the corridor like a lizard. He doesn’t know how far he’s actually gotten from their room, and Sephiroth, and all that fucking demonic noise, but he’s still got something left to give. He lurches and pulls, just by his elbows at first, and then his hips, and his knees, and he starts to crawl.

He puts the thought of Sephiroth strolling up behind him out of his mind. No, he’s not going to saunter up, boot click after boot click, and stick him in the back with his evil fucking sword. No. He puts his throbbing and bleeding hands out of his mind, and the blackness curling at the corners of his receding vision. He crawls. He tugs. He feels nothing.

He’s going to get Cloud.


	20. Chapter 20

_Status: Unknown - Location: Unknown_

It’s dark, damp and tight. The damn giant sword keeps getting wedged and scraped as they make their way through the tunnels, Barret in front, Zack next, the beast behind. As it is, Barret and him, both being tall individuals, crouch low to fit through the passages. Nanaki is not so impeded. He easily fits, walking on all fours.

He could have thought this whole giant weapon thing through a little more. It probably wasn’t a good idea to have that cigarette either. His skull has been airy and his lungs watery since. But, looking back, he didn’t do an express amount of thinking, did he? Even if it felt that way at the time. He is response and not much else. Any second glance was a miracle. That makes him a great soldier, as established, but maybe he should have been a stuntman or a life guard instead. He has the ambition and the heart, and so little to show.

It’s thirty minutes into their undertaking. Zack has been struggling with the internal whispering of Cloud’s voice, and the intermittent scraping of his sword. But, he’s not going to add to it. He’s on course and locked in.

If their plan unfolds as it should, as soon as they hit the surface and the occupied streets, Nanaki will escort them (to a degree) into headquarters. He still has his in with Shinra, so he’ll be seen as an employee returning to base. Him and Barret should then be able to slip behind and subdue any distracted guards (and other) likely to be along the way. They weren’t so lucky in finding a passage directly through to their destination. The sewers are blocked by grates at certain points to deflect intruders (squatters and rebels alike).

Presently, Nanaki and Barret lag back, moving along the now widening main tunnel more slowly. They’re talking in lowered tones. Zack surges ever forward, uninterested in their plans or observations. He stretches and strides, no longer confined to the limited space.

If he had left on his own, he wouldn’t have known how to snake through these tunnels. He would have gotten lost in the twists and turns, and the endless options and exits, and Cloud would have slipped away. He needs this new partnership, whether he wants to think about it long enough to admit it or not. He’s just as uninterested in listening to good sense, hindsight, or his body telling him to slow down. His patience is just another casualty.

He revs up the march, literally headed to the illuminated end of the tunnel, the still-living parts of the abandoned sewer system under the monster that is Midgar. As they approach, he can see it gleaming out there, fueling the still-living hope in his poisoned guts that Cloud will be okay when he gets there. Even if he also knows that hope is as blind as he should be.

A firm hand on his shoulder holds him in place, stopping his swift progress. He lurches and looks back, seeing the sword’s blade blue, and then the tan for Barret, and meteor-strike-Nanaki beyond. Their faces might be collectively concerned, severe, or they could be snide.

It’s enough to make Zack raving mad. Which, to be honest, is only getting easier and easier. He doesn’t feel in control of his emotions so much as they’re in control of him. It's a growing storm on the horizon. He’s been on the verge of meltdown twice since the day began.

“You need to slow down,” Nanaki tells him.

“Why?” Zack’s tone scathing, razors to the ears.

“You’re bleeding,” Barret explains.

(... _What’s wrong with my eye?_...)

Zack feels it then, running down his cheeks, hot as tears.

_Oh._

“I’m fine,” he says.

And he is. The blood stops and dries to his face as they continue on their merry way. Nanaki takes over the lead, Barret keeps an eye behind, and Zack keeps in line. Every aspect of his appearance is looking ready for the finale. His war paint is on, his head bare, his mind made, his found sword at the ready. But, prequels of the inevitable, always his affliction reminds.

They pass through the slums, making a quick exit into more waiting tunnels. After a steady stroll through the main drainage line there, and a vertical climb up a service ladder for about twenty-five feet, they crawl to the city surface from an already open manhole.

Barret comes first (wiggling his giant shoulders, and the rifle slung over his back, through the tight squeeze), and then Zack’s sword is hoisted, followed by Zack himself. Nanaki takes up the rear, paws skittering and struggling on the rounded rungs. They all scramble to find cover once clear, wanting to stay out of view of any eyes until they’re ready to be seen.

Getting to street level reminds Zack that he was once supposed to have a ceremony here in his name. The ceremony was to celebrate his career and achievements, and all this other bullshit, but that was just bullshit too. They held no celebration. It was a ruse.

No matter where they’ve come out in city sectors, they’ll need to move towards sector 0: the heart of the city and Shinra’s hub. Even though Zack blew out the civilian entrance to their main building the night he escaped, there are plenty of other access routes to get inside. See: tunnels, stairwells, helicopter pads on the roof of every building.

It’s night, they have the advantage of stealth, surprise, employee access, _and_ Shinra is in minor disarray. Slipping in now might be too easy. It’s the coming out that’ll be the cause for concern.

“We’re close,” Barret assures him.

Zack only nods, knowing all too well.

(... _I’m not sure how I feel_ …)

They move along the shaded fronts of dimmed buildings and shops, sticking to the alleys, taking the back route. They keep the tower within view. It lords over everyone and everything below, making that an easy enough task. They avoid sidewalks and open streets, any glinting lights and crowds, and most of the Shinra night watch. Civilians go about business as normal.

In a city like Midgar, it’s easy enough to get around without being noticed. With how plentiful the shadows and hidey-holes are, it almost seems to have been built with its impoverished peoples in mind. So industrious, Shinra even made a place for its gloom.

Having made few ripples and seen few units, the gang soon comes to the high-walled outskirts of sector 0. They huddle close to darkness and discuss their point of entry.

“The access tunnel’s to the west,” Zack reminds.

“Yeah,” agrees Barret. “We follow Nanaki, stay hidden, and rush the guards when they’re lookin’ the other way. Then we get in.”

“Don’t forget," Zack adds, putting it uncharacteristically flat, "...we’ll also need to avoid being seen by more guards, and navigate through a confined 70-story building.”

“But you know that confined building,” Barret retorts.

Zack’s not unfamiliar with the procedures at the west access tunnel either. He’s snuck in and out of headquarters many times before for various different reasons, in various different fashions. The only difference now is the two stragglers, and his visual handicap, and that he’s officially dead in Shinra’s eyes. If memory serves, and hopefully it does, they won’t run into but a handful of guys until getting inside. The tunnel itself is the only direct link passing underneath the central city. It reaches below the slums, the old sewers, the dirt and the bones.

The posse pushes on, skirting the walls with their hanging lamps, spotlights and razor-wire. They circle around to their best option. Upon arrival, Nanaki approaches sector 0’s gates alone. Barret and Zack hang back and wait, staying part of the scenery. Barret slings his rifle from his shoulder, into his hands, and checks the chamber. They watch for their cue.

The beast continues ahead, clearing the gates festooned with more razor-wire, and cameras Zack knows are mostly for show. He heads down to the checkpoint set up on the curve of a short sloping road, just before the tunnel opening itself. Two guards are waiting there, manning a small hut and a boom gate. They don’t notice him until he gets right up on them. The far one flinches as he does. The action alerts his buddy, who turns, rotating carefully.

“What are you?” he asks.

“Red XIII.”

“He’s Shinra,” the flincher hisses.

“We employ dogs now?”

Zack and Barret make their move meanwhile. Staying low, they advance from the outer walls, clearing the front gate and the chain link bottleneck. Following Nanaki down, the two slip along the fringes of the lit and sloped road. They take cover behind the guard's hut. Infiltration almost successful, they hold there and listen for another signal.

“Go on through then,” the guard tells Nanaki.

The boom gate engages, wooden bar starting its rise.

Zack and Barret pounce.

 

 

On their way down the yawning-wide access tunnel, guards dealt with, progress looking good, Zack starts to feel something new. It’s a crackling and a heaviness, like too much static electricity in the air. He’s not unsteady though, even if it is a change, and Cloud’s voice has gone, along with any others that might have been. For now, anyway, he has radio silence.

The freight elevator inside the tunnel takes them up and drops them off on the topmost floors of the extensive science departments of headquarters, but goes no higher. From there, floor 25, they will have to ascend the hard way. That should help them avoid being detected, or stumbling into traps, at the very least. One can hope.

Zack takes the lead, pushing them forward into enemy territory. He has purpose and drive. He’s as confident as he’s going to get. He isn’t thinking about Cloud or what it will be like seeing him again, at last. At long last. He isn’t thinking about his probable anger, dejection and loss of faith in him either. He keeps his mind clear and even, as smooth as ice.

(... _he said... I'm special… special to you_ …)

It’s the sucker punch that always gets him.

Nanaki and Barret freeze, following his lead. They’re probably thinking he’s noticed a threat, or is plotting, perhaps, or trying to recall the way. They’re not ready for the reality, because the reality is Zack dropping his sword and then dropping himself. On his knees, spread out over linoleum, still wrapped in their makeshift leggings, he starts to bawl. Only, he isn't bawling, because he can’t bawl, sob, or shed a single tear. He’s whining out this gutted sound instead, right into his trembling hands, peeling the dried blood from his cheeks and chin. The vision of tortured anguish; all the good gone in the world.

Both Nanaki and Barret rush to calm him (and the resounding noise).

It only takes one touch to send him upright.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he swears, bolting to his feet, livid all at once. 

Barret and Nanaki stand by, unsure of how to handle the scene or proceed.

“Ya alright, brother?”

“I’m sick of this shit!” Zack bellows, turning to face them. He screams it to the ceiling, to them, to the heavens, fist shake and foot stomp and all. “You hear me!? I’m fucking sick of it! Fuck this!”

Just as quickly as the outburst began, Zack composes and collects his sword from the tile. He doesn’t hesitate another moment or utter another sound, he pushes on. That heavy sensation hasn't lessened, and it's back to being eerily calm in his head.

He’s too focused on forging forward to do proper damage control, or to wait for his ragtag crew. He knows he’s losing touch, thinning out, lashing out. He'll either be all messy emotion or a drooling lump by night’s end. Or, because his mind has gone there, and all the more lately, he’ll be an oozing mess of guts and mako. It's uncertain how, but death is coming. It comes for everyone. And damn, is it really out for him. He can’t stop now.

At least he has an idea of where they could be holding him. If he was trying to keep Cloud safe in this setup, this damn place, he’d stay as far up the tower as possible, forcing anyone on the attack to make their way through the lower floors and all possible defenses, and waiting troops. That would also give him ample time to escape by the roof, via a waiting helicopter.

That’s how he’d do it anyway, and that might be how Cloud's bodyguard is too.

As the two fall in behind, he asks either of them, “What’d this guy tell you again?” It’s as casual as someone who has yowling breakdowns like someone might sneeze.

“We have eyes everywhere, man," Barret answers, indulging him that illusion. "Our insurgent told us all he knew about Cloud before losing contact. He was last seen entering room three in the executive levels. His bodyguard trips our radars, you could say. Just like you did. He’s shown resistance to Shinra, and that’s what we want. That’s what we _need_.”

Zack nods. “We’re going to hoof it."

He finds his way, the building a beacon of electricity and mako and his recollection on point. He guides the willing company through a windowed door to a stairwell. The shaft on the other side is low-lit and lofty. It should go up as high as the tower itself, it being the main fire exit and all. Zack has gotten so far as the SOLDIER levels this way, and knows it goes higher still.

They’re so close now. His guts start to flutter, not sickly but excitedly. He’s finding his breath short, his inhales sharp and quick, his palms sweaty. He has goosebumps, and his heart and head thump a drum beat. But, they’re all stabilizing reactions. He notes every one, relishing. It’s enough to make him feel half human again. 

_You better be alright. You better be just fine, like a day I never saw you, because you were always in disarray with me. I’m sorry for that. Sorry for everything and me, especially. Sorry you ever joined Shinra. I just need to know you’re okay._

Taking the long way gives him plenty of time to think. For better or for worse, step after step, stair after stair, he silently chants his worries and fears. It’s a mantra by floor 35, a prayer by 50, a desperate ramble by 63.

The gang is exhausted after the last push to the uppermost floors. They stand now before the entry to floor 66, catching their wind, executive level reached. This is where being seen will reduce their success rate. They’ll need to be ready, on the alert, and quick to respond. If only he could pilot a helicopter, or they could parachute down. Some quick way to split.

“Go time,” he says and opens the stairwell door.

The crew piles out, rubber-soled boots and claws clicking against mirror-black floors. Nanaki and Barret have another sucker punch waiting for him though (what feels like an answer to his instability and distrust). No effect without cause, after all.

They don’t wait or turn to follow his lead. Once they’re clear of the threshold they’re on their way, just the duo. Barret gives a parting, _See you at the end, brother_. Nanaki adds, _Good luck, Zack_. And, they disappear, taking the opposite route, rushing ahead with their own agenda. 

It’s all the more infuriating because he can’t address it. Fellowship asunder, he’s left to gawk. He doesn’t have the capacity to rage, spit fire, ask questions, avoid death/recapture, and find Cloud all at the same time. It’s choose one, none, and be damned anyway.

 _Fucking rebels_.

It was about Sephiroth, or Rufus, or the Director, or Hojo, or Kunsel, or whatever, whoever, whomever. It’s noise, just noise. Zack only cares about one name. He’s going to follow the directions to room number three and the objective end. Alone, and at the near peak of Shinra Tower, he lugs the sword over his shoulder. If he steps too close to the edge now, he’s falling.

The rooms are quite big, based off how far apart they have them spaced. He’s been walking for several feet, down the immaculate onyx tile, through the over-lit space, and he’s only just now come to room number two. They must be suites of some sort.

He strides on, watching for approaching auras or sudden changes in his vision. Everything is nominal. No alarms or sirens or screaming men-just-boys. No sickness or weakness or pending feelings of despair. No whisperings of nonsense (or sick truths), or lightning strike paralysis. It’s just him, the tile, the gold trashcans, the potted plants, the door, the number three, and his desire to get on the other side.

He surprises himself by knocking. He’s exposed in the hallway, sword balanced blade tip to tile, palm on the butt of its cross-guard. He waits for a response. If there’s a peephole in the door he can’t quite tell. He might have to bust it down after all.

A voice comes through muffled. It sounds like, _the hell are you_.

Zack responds from his heart, bypassing logic. He lets the flow come natural and off-the-cuff. “I’m Zack _fucking_ Fair,” he shouts. “Ex-SOLDIER 1st Class extraordinaire. Once murdered, thrice revived, pissed as hell. I’m here for my friend, my only friend, so you better open up.” 

He waits a tick, a solitary second, and then re-shoulders the massive sword. He has every intention of kicking the door down, but it clicks and unlocks. He is being allowed in, whether he was intimidating or not, or they just felt like having a chat. He pushes it open, left hand flat against the heavy wood (fine wood, for important people) and enters.

It’s not well lit on the inside, which is a shame, but not unexpected either. This bodyguard knows a few things. He’s got to, in order to have survived this far.

Zack presses forward, stepping over the threshold, now inside the suite, clear and cool. The heavy door behind closes itself, cutting off the source of light. As it clicks the lamps come on.

He’s not blinded, or thrown off, he’s been counting off every beat, waiting out every action as if he were orchestrating it himself. And, besides, he’s been able to _see_ the bodyguard since before entering. His aura might be hazy and shifting, as if being collected by a great wind, but there he is, saying, “Holy shit. You’re all fucked up.”

“Fine way to introduce yourself. Where’s Cloud?”

“Sorry I’m not as good as you, mister fucking 1st Class.”

First impressions. He’s tall, he’s thin, and he’s unwell (probably from the escape), but he’s not going to underestimate him. He’s going to keep that mind clear, that ice smooth like… His head twinges, hot needles, ice picks, cymbal crashes, tidal waves. The bodyguard’s silvery pigment, already hard to make out, shifts all the more, blurring and smearing.

He could be moving, he could be standing still. It’s a moment of uncertainty that sends Zack into immediate unbalance, and he doesn’t recover well. He wants to attack, like some wild dog, and cut his losses and disadvantages, but he shoves the desire down, swallows thickly, grinds his jaw, and he claws back to the surface.

“Where is he?” he repeats, just managing.

“I’m Reno, by the way. We haven’t met but I’ve heard of you. A ton. You’re supposed to be legendary. And dead. Really, really dead. They had an announcement.”

“Do I look dead to you?”

“Kinda,” Reno replies, a touch flippant.

“Where is he?”

“Sheesh. Chill. He’s been with me, safe and sound. But, he’s… We almost didn’t make it, man. The fuck were you anyway, soldier boy? Huh, boyfriend? Although, wait, _wait_. I take it back. You look about ready to eat my face off. He’s…”

How Reno keeps avoiding the point sends Zack into action. He only gets so far as lifting the giant sword an inch off his shoulder though, as he’s got a gun in his face stopping him. The barrel is a blacked out eye, the beginning and the end, heralder of harm.

“Can you see that?” Reno is close enough that Zack can make out his smile, his transparent lips and tongue, and every tooth in his skull. “Drop it,” he orders.

Zack obeys, bending down to lay the sword at their feet.

“What’s with this? Why are you here now? I see you’ve had some trouble too. Did you really come back from the dead? Or are you just pretending? An impostor? You look crazy, man. I could just shoot you and put you out of your misery. Our misery.”

“He’s everything.”

“He’s nothing,” Reno corrects.

“He’s _everything_ ,” Zack repeats, firm, punctuated, control waning.

Reno shakes his head. “He’s sleeping,” he says, and lowers the firearm. “He does a lot of that. Back there, the hall, door on the left. Be quiet, and take it easy, man. _Easy_. You’re enough to freak me out. I’ll be behind you.”

Zack might swoon. He knows he stumbles (on his sword), and maybe his anxiety shows, and maybe not. He doesn’t care, he’s on his way, he’s finally there. He moves ahead, leaving that sword where he put it. On the floor and useless.

He wasn’t able to make it out through the three thick walls, and the angle, but he can make it out through the one now, and it helps that he’s facing it head on. He’s still shocked and ashamed he didn’t notice it sooner. Maybe he’ll be forgiven. Maybe he should wake up.

It’s indefinable, phosphorous, and the closer they get the stronger his heart beats, the stronger the sensations become. It’s like a warm breeze, a gentle breath on the face, heat, and yet dense tension too. He has to wonder, as he looks on, drawing forward like a pupil to the altar... has he been making these cues up himself? Has he been the one choosing each one?

Here and now, thought solidified, through plaster, metal, wood, and hell, he is exactly what he expected him to be. Cloud is golden bright, through and through, the picture of glory, rebirth, redemption, absolution, completion, and all his hopes in one. 

He is everything.

But, Reno’s fixing to shoot him. He might have told him the way they were going, but he’s not leading him to where Cloud is, he’s leading him away, to an empty room. Zack picks up on it as they enter the hall and walk to the back, doors and rooms on either side. They pass Cloud’s eternal glow beaming, and only go farther. He’s really fixing to shoot him.

Zack isn’t going to say anything just yet. He’s rolling around the possibilities, the options, the probable outcomes and worrisome theories. He could just let him shoot him; call it a mercy kill. He’s doing a better job of watching Cloud, don’t you know. Can’t you see?

He gets to the door and opens it quietly, going along with Reno’s instructions.

He could just corner him and take him out first. He could. He could do anything. The option is there, the means coursing through his veins, pumping into his galloping heart, dumping out courage, and strength. But, that will to live, and that love? That’s all his own. That can’t be diluted.

“Gonna need a silencer,” he tells Reno, now inside the dim and unoccupied room. “Don’t want to wake him.”

“Just keep going.”

“I’m not your enemy.”

Reno says, “Trust no one.” 

Zack can see the handsome bed, a nightstand, even the designs on the rug; the choice of wood and metal together, the gleaming glass-topped coffee table. It’s the best his sight has ever been, and is likely to ever be. Here, the room, the walls, the outlets, the phone lines, gas lines, power and plumping; he can feel them all.

“Think about this,” he warns Reno.

Reno chooses to lift his firearm, the motion giving off waves, ripples, warning signs. Zack drops to the ground. The gun doesn’t fire, but he doesn’t give him the option to realign either. He drops and kicks out a leg, sweeping Reno’s ankles and taking him down. The gun flies, Zack spins around and rises, now facing the bodyguard.

Reno’s already back to his feet and rearmed with a knife.

“Well, shit,” he heaves. “I guess we can do this the old-fashioned way.”

“We’re not doing it anyway,” Zack says.

Reno snorts. “You really think I’m going to just... take your word for it? You’re Zack Fair? With all the shit that’s happened to me, man, you’re the last guy I’m going to listen to. Look at you.”

“Look at me,” Zack agrees. “I’ll fight you to the bitter end.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of...”

“You might have gotten away from—”

“No, fuck off,” Reno interrupts, shaking his hand and the knife. “You can’t use that, buddy. You sound like you’re reading it off a damn cereal box. And besides, _you_ lost Cloud in the first place. Not me. He’s not left my _sight_ , pal. _You_.”

Zack is getting off track. He sniffs, smelling metal. His vision is tilting, ever-so slightly. Reno’s tint is draining, ever-so slightly. If only he could reset by blinking or shaking his head, but the head shaking only makes the situation worse, and we all know about the blinking. He takes a weary and miscalculated step backward, exhibiting weakness, only trying to collect himself.

“Why…” Zack stutters, waving a blind arm, waving for the distortion clear, wanting it to just be simple and sure, and _easy_. “Why... are _you_ here? Isn’t your job done? Haven’t you punched out yet? Why are you still under Shinra’s thumb? Aren’t _you_ the impostor?”

(... _his brother_ …)

“And what about your brother...” Zack snarls, going for the throat.

(... _dead, dead, dead_ …)

“Dead, dead, de—”

“Shut your fucking mouth!” Reno screams.

He would have come barreling at him then, locomotion, straight as a bullet, Zack knows. And he would have vaulted him across the rug and onto (but probably over) the handsome bed and into a vicious, grizzly deathlock, stabbing and stabbing and stabbing, but he doesn’t.

Reno doesn’t carry out any of this because he’s looking to the door frame and the body outlined there. Zack continues his backtrack, now out of awe and reverence rather than any form of weakness. He hits the bed and stops. His vision has become starkly clear, strenuously crystal, and too much to handle. He looks away and covers his former eyes.

He hears his golden boy, voice tentative and groggy.

“Why are you screaming?”


	21. Chapter 21

_Status: Ex-bodyguard - Location: Shinra Headquarters, exec. levels_

He found him under a desk.

Don’t ask him how he got there either. He doesn’t remember much. He could spin you a tale about the varying nuances of pain and agony, and the floating-free dissipation in his head and guts, but he couldn’t tell you how he got to Cloud, exactly. Sheer will or luck, or maybe a mystical reprieve. Who knows? He had crawled and grabbed and lunged and rolled half into Cloud, half into the desk leg.

“Ouch,” he said, a _little_ bit of a downplay given the circumstances. He touched Cloud, his hand wet and slippery and cold. There was no reaction. Which was nice, really. He had feared another explosion, or a punch to the face, but the kid didn’t move. He tried to shake him, using that slippery wet appendage, and only sent waves of nausea into his already unhappy system. The fingers clawed, compulsive, and dug two good picks into Cloud’s knee. Starting as high as the second knuckle, thanks to the viper Masamune, three of the fingers were missing.

 _That’s not good_ , he’d thought. _I’ll get Cloud’s knee a mess_.

He removed the hand and again dismissed the injury, too far gone to feel too much of anything unless agitated. It was there though, that constant buzzing, that eaten at sensation, but it wasn’t enough to keep a good Reno down. He tried again, sat upright with the help of his good hand, and some bitten back moans, and he leaned, and leaned, and couldn’t catch himself. He didn’t end up shaking him out of his lockdown. He face-planted into his bony shoulder.

Cloud groaned.

“Come on…” Reno wheezed. “Come on… Help me…”

The blond lifted his head, his eyes, those warring colours.

Reno blinked, vision murky.

“You’ve got to get your ass up,” he told him. “I can’t…”

And that’s where things went pear shaped. Again. There are glimpses, off and on, of them trudging through the corridors, Reno’s arm over Cloud’s shoulders, the base quiet and dark, a dense shroud around them, everyone either dead or gone, man, _outta there_ , but they’re just glimpses and flashes. Fast forward to struggle and blood, tears and things now kept only between him and Cloud, things he’s not proud of. That growing shame is a real drag.

He fell many times. He cursed and flailed. He called out for his brother. How they ever made it out is more thanks to Cloud than him. He’ll probably never tell him that, but he’s learning that he wants to, and needs to, even if it’s the result of a crash course in decency; a real trial by fire.

He can’t remember Cloud saying much of anything throughout the exodus. From the desolate hallway, to the fringes of the tantalizing exit, things did improve. Reno picked the bodies of fallen soldiers and secretaries, doctors and nurses along their way. He collected several health potions and a flashlight. The resources proved enough to allow him to walk, but even two potions did nothing for the pain, or the guilt, or the fear. He can say he walked (shuffled) out of there of his own volition. Right on out of his brother’s tomb.

The helicopter was a gift from the heavens. They broke the surface to leave NCB2 behind for good. He downed another potion, a mega dose and the last, and took them both up to the waiting helipad located atop the base’s concrete bunker entrance. He fumbled the machine’s door open and took the pilot’s seat. Cloud strapped in next to him as if he’d done it all before. He didn’t have a single comment. His head was loose on his neck. His eyes, underneath the fall of tangled hair, glassy and dilated.

At the very least, the weather was clear that late morning, and Reno’s right hand was still functional. All the fingers were still where they should be concerning that guy. He was lucky. Real lucky. Hell, he might have been (and still is) the luckiest asshole in the world. Sephiroth could be dead, and he might be the one that hammered the last nail.

He fumbled with the helicopter’s door again, leaning just his head out, and retched onto the cement and low snow drift, expelling most of the uses of the found potions. For all of it, he felt more clear headed afterward. Wiping his mouth, he swung back in and closed the door tight.

The helicopter had been in the middle of refueling and service. He might know how to fly the things but anything else was beyond his minimal training. Not to mention, patience and capabilities slash disabilities. He had flipped through the pilot’s handbook years back. Trial and error did the rest. This was a military utility transport helicopter too, twice the size he was halfway familiar operating.

Under normal circumstances he knew he would have to check the rotors to make sure the blades were aligned correctly with the fuselage for proper start up. Instead, because he was injured, and his only buddy was in the clouds (stratospheric), he just hoped they were close enough not to stall out once he fired her up.

He skipped all exterior checks and ran through a handful of onboard safety routines. Fuel was a staggering fourth full in one tank, empty altogether in the other. That was a problem. Oil pressure looked steady though, and no ice appeared to have formed on the windscreen. All gauges lit up. Good enough.

“Seatbelts on?”

Cloud, over in the co-pilot’s chair, he existed.

“Engine start.”

 

 

And now they’re here, _boom_ , after leaking oil and fuel into the ocean over the two hour tour to headquarters and coastal Midgar. The refueling hose detached dramatically as they first lifted off, and it’s probably still there too, hanging on like a tentacle. They made it by the skin of their teeth, and by the stretch of Reno’s skill. It took everything he had to level out the fat fucker for landing.

The only visitor since has been this Zack Fair, the legend dead arisen and on the war path, or so he says. Although, maybe it’s Reno who’s on the war path. After all that’s happened to him in the last handful of weeks, he can’t talk much on his own mental state. He has one definable, tangible desire, and that’s to follow his brother’s last words: _get Cloud_. So, he is going to follow them, and his duty to make amends, all the way to his own messy finish. He’s going to fight and die, because that’s life, that’s nature, baby. Nothing else has flavour, or colour, or aroma like it did before. He’s damaged goods, ruined. He's dusk without dawn, damned for inaction.

Cloud remains there in the door frame. Zack is reeling in pain, or awe, or mental relapse. All Reno marks is his glimmering chance. He’s so vulnerable, this SOLDIER, hands over his lowered face, bent over, shivering and everything.

_Shit, look at him. That’s right. Look. Can he even do that? Or is he lying? Could they be very thin, those bandages, so he can spy through? What the hell happened to him? What is he really here for? Did Sephiroth send him?_

He grips the knife, Vegas’ butterfly, the only one of two he could locate (to his despair), and side-steps to Cloud.

“What’s going on? Who’s that?” He’s just as mixed up as he is.

“That’s…” starts Reno.

“It’s me,” Zack weakly overrides, a naked plea from under his palms.

Cloud’s mouth hangs wide there a second, wanting to form a response, but he has nothing for him. There’s no recollection, no knowing, and no immediate desire to amend. Reno’s grip on the knife tightens all the more. It’s all the indication he needs.

“ _Stop!_ ” Zack shouts.

“Reno!”

The knife blade lodges deep into Zack’s gloved palm. It goes in smoothly, as he put his arm out to deflect him, meeting with his own force. There the blade has stuck, stopped by the handle, unable to pass through to its target. Reno’s sweaty hand trembles down to the elbow. The bloodied blade on the far side reaches on for Zack’s face and jugular.

“Reno!” Cloud repeats, louder.

Zack sneers a toothy sneer, bandages red and wet and peeling. He’s a brick wall. His arm isn’t going to budge, or sway, or strain. He’s stronger than he presents, and he shows no fear.

Reno lefts off, pulling the butterfly free with a quick flick. It trails and drips red, spots of it now everywhere. He retreats to Cloud and the door frame.

“You don’t know this guy,” he assures, moving them both a step back.

“I don’t know…”

“Cloud...” Zack continues, suffering, stressing, but he stays put.

Reno shakes his head. “You don’t know him,” he insists, voice caring but assertive.

“I can’t remember,” Cloud mumbles. “I’m tired. My head hurts.” He sways and steps back into the hallway and off the threshold.

Zack starts forward, holding out his bleeding hand. “Wait, wait, please.” He looks like death and yet sounds so desperate and mortal, channeling some kind of religious figure or fanatic pleading his case. “You’re not okay. You’re all wrong. There’s… You’re…”

Reno steps between them, cutting off his ramble and direct access with his body. Cloud stops his retreat to look back over Reno’s shoulder. There's Zack: bald, bandaged, bloodied. His expression must be in turmoil. He must be trying to bring any fragment of memory to the surface.

“You know me,” Zack continues, blood dripping. “You’re Cloud Strife, an infantryman. A new Shinra recruit. Low level. You took your first drop mission with me, your commanding officer. I'm in SOLDIER. I…” Zack twitches, a violent thing. “I was… uh, fuck.” He leans over, thumps his head once, and continues. “I _was_... We crashed during that drop mission. And crashed again. And all this other shit. Your mother died in a fire. You were kidnapped by Sephiroth, my fucking ex-lover-whatever. I tried to save you, but I couldn’t. I didn’t. I messed it up. I’m here now, and you’re not okay. He... poisoned and damaged you... and I’m sorry, man. I love you.”

“Sephiroth…?” Cloud questions.

“ _Yes_ ,” Zack responds, wanting to close the distance. “He’s… he’s…”

Reno flashes the stained butterfly, stalling any advance. He might be half the size of Zack in muscle (they’re eye-to-eye in height) but he is not deterred. It’s probably his most charming quality. Next to his high pain tolerance, his love of fun, his loyalty, and his smile. And, well, the shock of red hair. That used to be a shared quality, but no longer.

“Your eye, Cloud,” stresses Zack.

“My eye?”

“You lost it in the first crash.”

“I…”

“That,” Zack points, arm level, “Is not your real eye.”

“What?” Reno interjects. “You’re not telling me Sephiroth... did that?”

“You’ve seen it?” Zack asks.

“I guess…” Reno answers hesitantly, remembering how he found Cloud back in his bedroom in NCB2. He was just a body, a mop of hair, a heavy smell, and two different coloured eyes. One was blue, which was normal, and the other one was stoplight green, which was not normal. And, oh by the way, he’s been a husk ever since.

“That’s why you don’t recognize me,” Zack tells Cloud.

Cloud blinks, uncomfortable.

“ _That’s_ why?” Reno scoffs, dismissing his observations. “It’s not because you’re full of shit and I should kill you? He had both eyes when I met him, yo, and they were both blue then. That doesn’t mean anything. And what the fuck? Sephiroth’s your _ex-lover_? That’s _not_ scandalous. And just more evidence not to trust you. I thought I had dirty hands.”

“You love me?” Cloud whispers.

Zack answers, quick as a whip, “From the moment I saw you. The back of your spiky head.”

Reno sighs. He wipes the butterfly clean on his slacks and flips it closed.

“I’ve never seen you before. I don’t remember a crash, or Sephiroth, or...”

“You’re gonna be at this a while,” Reno mutters, intercepting. “I’ve already been there, done that. He’s not… really... all there, you know? He’s probably not going to remember any of this tomorrow. Or in a few hours. He’s in shock, or something. I’ve literally gone days trying to explain that we’re in hiding, you know. He just doesn’t get it. He’s a space cadet.”

“What happened?”

“Uh… Well.” Reno diverts his eyes out of habit.

“The _fuck_ happened?”

“Sephiroth _happened_. He fucked him up, man,” he blurts. “And I mean… fucked him up. So, yeah. I guess that goes along with your whole eye theory. That still doesn’t take the responsibility off you, boyfriend. You’re the catalyst. We’re all the victims. My… my _brother_ died back there. For no reason. You’ve got some atoning... or some dying to do.”

What was weak and breaking and pleading becomes rigid and serious. Zack stands fully upright, no longer withered or wincing. The despairing arm and bleeding hand he held out to Cloud he crosses with the other over his wide chest, defined biceps now on show. His head is shaved, not well or carefully. He has many cuts and rebel tufts of ash black hair over both ears (nicked and sliced too) and at the nape of his neck. It’s already grown in bristled peach fuzz. What is left of his handsome face he has set in an even and unreadable form. He’s a monument, a statue: bronze, quartz, bone. He really is something.

“Where is he?” the ex-SOLDIER presses, meaning his ex-lover.

“Left his ass back at the base.”

Zack does not wilt.

Cloud, however, does.

 

 

_Status: Unknown - Location: Unknown_

As soon as his hands lifted from his eyes and engaged in deflecting Reno and his knife, he saw it. There, deep in Cloud’s skull, rooted in his false eye, viridescent like algae or phlegm, a gangrenous growth, a gift from Sephiroth. His bleached aura had almost been enough to hide it on its own, but no. Zack wouldn’t miss it. It’s a spike to his heart. He’s weak thinking about it. Something must be done. Something has to happen.

(... _he’s… he’s_ …)

Reno will be damned if he’s going to stop him from reaching out to him now. Cloud swayed and dropped, like many times Zack has before. They both rushed to gather him but somehow, thanks to his former reflexes, or just dumb luck, Zack soared forward through the door frame and got to him first. There was a moment, he sensed, where Reno wanted to attack him, his back turned and his attention consumed, but the bodyguard let it slide and gave him the moment. Likely because he already had Cloud in his arms by then.

(... _you love me?_...)

He carries him down the hallway, headed to his room, knowing the direction based off the glow from earlier. He sets him on the disturbed bedspread and turns to leave.

He’s found him (his charm, his totem), they’ve been reunited. Despite everything and the cancer in his head. 

“Are you blind?”

Zack stops. He doesn’t think before he responds. “Yes. And no. Kind of. It’s hard to explain.”

“Oh,” Cloud breathes.

This is killing him. This is killing him more than any mako already coursing through his circulatory system. He wants to touch him and hold him and apologize. Cloud doesn’t know who he is. He doesn’t seem to recall a moment of their time together, however ephemeral it was. He doesn’t recall the crash, the ice shelf, the warehouse, the machine, the old man, the airship, the kiss, the next crash, the next kiss. He doesn’t know of their struggle and trial. No more broken leg, damaged eye, Sephiroth, stabbing him twice, or any past feelings of murdered hope or choking fear. That might be a plus, but it means their growing closeness, the prospect of love and contentment, that’s all gone now too. None of it might be left. Not a shred.

_Fuck you, Sephiroth. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you._

He can’t entirely blame him. He doesn’t look anything like he would have remembered him anyway. That only makes him want to weep or rage or repent more. He thinks. He’s so messed up and down and all around. This would be the best time for it though. The one shining time for tears and sorrow and shame, but he isn’t allowed. He didn’t do his best at guarding messy emotions and overt signs of softness in the past. He tried to hide behind jokes and smiles and stupid shit. And the job. He’s stuck now with a frown or a scowl, and the gnawing, contorted outbursts. No more relief. No more robust mama's boy. No more hero's dream.

“You’re hurt.”

“I know.”

“You’re kind of…”

Zack waits, letting him stumble through it.

“...screwed.”

(... _cheated, tricked, swindled, conned_ …)

He stares, taken.

The blond drones, “I’m on my way. I’m coming fast now.” 

The lights, the glow, the whole show goes on the fritz. Zack stumbles backwards as if struck. He falls into something, a table, a chair, and takes it with him. His head doesn’t ache, it’s flown apart. He’s been slapped in the skull with a super-heated tank shell.

Reno stands in the door frame, silvery and shifting, watching, or he could be all over the damn room. Zack doesn’t care anymore, he's done reading and guarding, he’s kicking and struggling on the floor, fighting to stay conscious, fighting to challenge the pain. Cloud starts to scream, and only then does he break, throwing his own bellow into the mix, making it a duet. Reno screams too, jumping in, but he’s screaming obscenities and words of support. 

“Shit! Quit it! Stop! Yo! Everything’s cool! Fuck!”

The crisis, lasting seconds, passes with Cloud falling silent. Zack is motionless, conscious but drained, back pushed up a wall, leg twitching, chest heaving. The world is pulsing green, receding like a tidal wave. Remnants of Sephiroth, his influence, power and aura, serpent green. It washes over his crackling vision, a taste on his tongue and a trembling in his watery guts. Mint, spiced tea, coppery blood. He knows and remembers him well, despite all his best efforts and fractured psyche. Even in good circumstances he’s more likely to forget his favorite song, work schedule, and his mother's birthday, than any traumatic events. Those are etched.

“I’ve got two of you messed up fuckers now,” Reno curses.

“We’ve got to move,” Zack breathes. He stands, wobbles. He can feel fluid running from his nose, underneath his facial bandage, drooling from his mouth.

“What?” Reno asks. “Sephiroth?”

Zack nods weakly. He checks Cloud on the bed.

Reno throws his arms, two spikes of white, high into the air. “Of course he is! Of- _fucking_ -course. Why wouldn’t two rounds to the gut kill him? I should have put one in his head. Why leave, man? Let’s stay and say hi. Give him a good welcome.”

“You’re crazy.” Zack runs a hand over his sweating, smooth head. He wipes his nose and mouth. “I can’t take him.”

(... _he deserves death… now that I have no chance at a life_ …)

“But, I owe him so much,” Reno complains, stomping a foot.

“I can’t disagree. But you’re… And I’m…”

“What happened to your spunk?”

Reno’s not wrong. Zack is saturated with the knowledge that he’s not going to last long (or well) with this affliction. And he’s not going to last to tomorrow if Sephiroth can help it. He might as well make the last stand. No one gets to choose where or when they die. You can choose how, to a degree. It’s going to happen. Why not have some control? Why not challenge the cause, rather than the pain? Why has he been so set on fleeing? Is he scared? Has he lost his nerve?

(... _I’m coming fast now_ …)

“I don’t want to die in this building,” he admits.

Reno shrugs. “Same here. But… Well. I might have a solution for that. I have a helicopter on the roof. It’s in bad shape, and could be outta juice, but if we get to it we can get the hell outta here. Maybe. Sephiroth can play to an empty room. We’ll go flaming into the night.”

“We won’t be able to hide either way,” Zack reminds. “His eye. It’ll need to be…” It dawns on him even as he’s saying it. (... _expunge, excise, cancel_ …) “Removed.”

“I can’t touch him.” Reno shakes his silvery aura head, salt on blackboard.

“ _You_ can’t?” Zack chastises.

They both look to the oblivious blond. Zack isn’t thinking about it, entertaining it, or getting flash floods of soupy blood and clawed fingers and thrashing arms and kicking legs and screams. Screams for days. How can he be so sure that’s his own thought? How does he know it will cure him? He’s got to push it down. He’s got to focus on Sephiroth’s warning and arrival, and keeping his head on straight and his emotions in check.

They’ll get their butts to that helicopter and coast down to the badlands. The General can meet them there, on neutral ground, and they can go at it in the choking heat and dust. Reno and Cloud, meanwhile, can hide it out, or run it out, or help his case. That’s the new plan.

“Let’s try then. At the least.” Reno says, on board with his chopper idea. “We’ve been stuck in here for weeks. I gotta get outta here one way or another. You have no idea. I really need some fresh air and some action, and a fuck, and a cheeseburger. And if Sephiroth _is_ coming, man.…”

 

 

They emerge from the hallway and pass into the front room. Zack bends down to sweep up his sword. Cloud follows within inches of Reno, holding his hand. It’s an easy thing for Zack to tell. He can’t pull his gaze away, one, and two, Reno’s all lit up by the walking light bulb that is Cloud. The reflection gives a perfect picture, and it’s one shitty image.

“How _do_ you do that?” Reno asks him, indicating his head. “Is there a camera in there or something?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Zack deflects, bubbling up inside.

“Fuck you,” Reno grumbles. “Probably won’t be a later.”

As the two pass, bodyguard and client, headed to the exit, Zack slides a hand into Cloud’s free palm, acting on instinct and emotion. He pulls just enough to jolt Cloud forward a step in his direction, locking the arm in Reno’s hold and stopping him dead. It’s a challenge. “Let me get that,” he tells Reno, giving another soft tug. “Come here,” he tells Cloud.

Cloud drops Reno’s undamaged hand. The _fuck you_ should be _I’ll kill you_ now, but he only huffs and opens the door to the hallway.

Zack might not be able to make out his shifty, partial aura on its own, but he can see every detail of Cloud’s wonder. The yellow, marigold, golden rod; the flaxen tones. Sunlight through an amber vase. Early morning on a field of mustard. He’s not so blinding now (he’s had the time to adjust), but Cloud is still an arresting body of luminescence regardless. The details, the suggestions, every line and curve and coil a hot thread of outline. He can easily make out his lax expression, his hooded eyes, the webbed corruption deep down. He’s not really seeing him, not traditionally, but it couldn’t matter less.

“Your hand’s cold,” Cloud remarks.

Zack had reached for him with the hand Reno hadn’t assaulted. He made a mental note on purpose, really pushing the importance. He looks down to it now, his own body in contrast, glowing yellow-white next to his holy shroud, the immutable light source. His immutable source. “I’m missing a glove,” he notes.

“Oh,” Cloud breathes.

“Get a room...” Reno says under his breath. He pushes by, the distance showering him in high relief too, offering filaments of gold and tan and bronze.

(... _I’ve already been there, done that_ …)

Zack watches as Reno pauses before the door to remove his already undone suit jacket and untuck his already half-loosened dress shirt. He discards his golden tie, bright enough to match his glowing golden hair. He then brings out both firearms in sequence from their double small-of-the-back holster. One, two, the other collected from the vacant bedroom, loaded and ready. Zack has to imagine the pearl-grip, the ambidextrous safeties, the wear and tear. He imagines they match his pearl-gripped butterfly too. He doesn't imagine the three missing fingers from his left hand: index, middle, and half of the ring.

“You kids ready?” he asks, turning on a heel.

“My head hurts,” Cloud mutters.

Zack starts to nod and tremors instead, hissing in the aftershock.

“Fucking circus over here,” Reno mutters, and closes the suite door behind them.

They’re heading to the roof and the helicopter. They’ll be sure not to stop or hang out, or take any bathroom breaks. If what Zack knows to be true actually turns out to be true, Sephiroth is on his way from Shinra’s hidden base on the Northern Continent at a high rate of speed. Or he’s already here. If he’s corrupted Cloud’s head, he could have been watching and listening for weeks. They should filter what they say around him. They should be moving faster too.

“Is anyone even here?” Zack asks, lugging his sword up his shoulder, Cloud trailing behind.

Reno walks in pace with him. He shakes his head. “Not right now, no. Hardly. It was kind of a bonus. Shinra’s been in all kinds of chaos. The President’s dead. The Director’s gone. No one knows where the Mayor is… Not that he even mattered… How the hell did he keep his job, I wonder? Anyway, no. We’re alone.”

“You were alone.”

Zack and Reno stop their progress in unison and turn to track the intruding voice. Cloud proceeds walking on anyway, still hand-in-hand with Zack. He jerks once he runs out of slack and swings back, bumping his side.

On the far end of the floor, onyx tile a tar pit between, a figure waits.

“I thought we were,” Reno admits, exhibiting no urgency.

Zack is not so calm. He’s seeing what Reno can’t see. The figure’s aura is a warning sign from a mile off. It might not be his body, it’s not nearly tall enough, but that’s surely his handle, his shade, his cue. He’s inside that figure, like some kind of containment vessel, hitchhiking.

The figure advances, moving swiftly, arms limp at its sides.

Zack follows his gut (and Cloud’s pulling) and turns to book it down the opposite run of hallway, hand clamping his sword and Cloud’s warm hand. Reno remains stopped in the middle, looking on at the figure pacing forward. He is unaware of the situation.

“Reno!” Zack shouts back.

“Reeeno,” the figure taunts.

“Fuck this,” he curses, and turns to follow them.

The executive elevator will ride up to the roof. It’ll be easier than hoofing it, and Zack’s diminished enough as it is. He can’t do another marathon. This is his final act.

They wait a hairy moment for the lift doors to slide open after engaged. As they’re all stepping on, Reno turning to slap at the controls, the figure is upon them. Two arms shoot through the narrowing opening, preventing the doors from closing. Reno jumps back, knocking Cloud into Zack, who stumbles into the corner, sword trapped behind him.

The figure thrashes and grabs but doesn’t appear coordinated (or cognitive) enough to unwedge by itself. Reno lifts a leg and kicks, booting it right out the opening. The doors would have sealed then, no problem, but the figure is back just as quickly, a single arm now, thrashing and clawing. The thing twists and pulls, waving, caught by the forearm.

“Get out, get out!” Cloud howls.

Reno jams the _close doors_ button, _click, click, click_. The figure’s one arm becomes two, fingers working together to spread the doors for access. It doesn’t have to stress much, the lift wasn’t made with defense in mind. It then leans in, shoulders and head, mouth wide.

Zack sees a combat of green and gold. A battle of bright lights, stunning, to the literal sense. He hasn’t been able to function since the thing closed the gap. He hasn’t even picked Cloud up from the floor at his feet. But, soon there’s a change, a challenge, a flash of angry red out in the chartreuse sheen, and he hears a discharge, a bang.

The figure bursts.

(... _disintegrates, explodes, scatters_...)

And the doors bump closed.

“Oh fuck! Yuck. Oh!”

Reno staggers back. His arms, his chest, and the whole of his face and the bulk of his hair, they’re all covered, drenched, soaked and dripping. He’s been blanketed in the figure’s bits. He popped like a damn balloon. An overfilled balloon. Surprise, out he goes, everywhere and Reno.

“Fucking shit!” he’s swearing, trembling, shaking his arms of filth.

Zack and Cloud dodged most of the fallout and Reno took the brunt of the yuck square to the front. It’s bad enough that it’s disgusting and everywhere and starting to smell, but now Zack has something that will really get him going.

“He was in there, he was in there,” he rambles, coming up to paw at Reno and his face and mouth.

Reno slides away and into a wall, escaping the ministrations. “The fuck…?”

“He’s in the blood, dammit!” Zack bellows.

Reno stands upright, boots squeaking. He holsters his .45 and begins wiping at his face. He doesn’t have a clean sleeve or hand to help. “Oh geez,” he moans. “You don’t think…?”

“I don’t know...” Zack’s answer.

Reno rips off his shirt, using what he can to smear the mess from his eyes, lips, nose and hair. The reflection in the elevator doors assists some, enough for him to squint, but they’re just as streaked as he is. He looks like the victim of a prank. And, you know, he really is.

“Fucking Sephiroth.”

He spits in the corner, tossing his sopping shirt behind.

“Going up?” he chimes, grinning a forced grin, bare from the waist up, bloodied, acting the role he was born to play, and accenting Zack beautifully. He pulls a key card, inserts it into the panel, and depresses a sequence of buttons. “Let’s get this over with,” he growls.

Cue the lift.


	22. Chapter 22

_Status: Unknown - Location: Unknown_

The ragtag group holds in a state of trance waiting for the lift to rise, the act to end, the crescendo, the top, literally and figuratively. It couldn’t come sooner.

“Fucking elevators. What’s with me and fucking elevators? Had that scuffle with Kunsel in one. Had to use one to get free of the Tower. Last time I talked to my mom was probably in one. I know there’s more still... And look where I am now: an _elevator_. Up or down, you decide, revenge or justice, right or wrong. We’re looking at a heap of trouble on either end, and all I want is a cigarette, a lie down, and a cup of coffee, or soup, or something. Not choices. Not this crap. I’ve been going for weeks.”

“I wouldn’t mind a shower,” Reno commiserates.

Zack can see himself mirrored in the elevator’s doors, and for the first time since after Hojo’s trial, he is offered a clear picture. He doesn’t know the person that confronts him. Although he matches his height well enough, and some of the build (he is slimmer, thinner, and wasted away), everything else is wrong. His stance is not confident, he’s hunched over like there’s a great weight there, and there is. His head is naked, eyes wrapped, blood dried, lips thin and tight, jaw set rock solid, square.

He’s only ever constructing the possibilities. Imagination is sight for the sightless. The reality, amplified by the strange colour lifted off Cloud, and his off vision, is not going easy on him. He doesn’t look handsome, or powerful, or true. He looks haggard and beat and ready to collapse. He’s white knuckles, blood, gore, cuts healed, raw nerves; a standing corpse at best.

What a good day to die.

The seaweed green glow from the marauder's accident has not faded. The evidence is still wet on the interior walls. Cloud’s shine is strong, a torch in the dark, but it’s also stained too, deepest at the core of his skull and left eye socket. The former overpowering gold is more like grassy fields now, or olive simmering, and that’s losing its fight by the second. Willow threads spread and mix, settling in, branching out, and only Zack can see it happening.

Head over his lap, Cloud remains on the lift floor. He’s not said another word. Shirtless and dripping, Reno leans in a corner over him. He’s inspecting his nails, his arms, and his lengthy hair as surreptitiously as possible. He’s preening, and that makes Zack furious all at once. 

It’s not the action that triggers the emotion but the nuances therein; the reason, the catalyst, the genesis.

The bodyguard has three missing fingers, one less brother, Cloud’s a conduit zombie, and he’s… he’s…

“Fuck!” he howls, startling the others.

Reno blurts _only two more floors_ in knee-jerk response.

Cloud moans from under his hair.

Zack, he feels it slipping, just like he feels his mind slipping, but he doesn’t stop it. He lets go and drops the sword, _clang clang_ , bringing up both arms, fists already formed. He attacks the closest thing, the paneled wall, and it’s bloodied (with regards to Reno’s butterfly knife) by the first punch. By the second jab it’s dented inward, and the third solid hook knocks the damaged panel from the wall entirely. It crashes to the floor and he steps away, swaying, arms still raised but lolling. Under his heavy breathing he can’t yet hear it.

_Terminated, terminated, terminated._

The sage haze respires on every syllable. The elevator doors chime. His breath catches.

The bell is the war drum that rattles his loose hold, disdain and despair. Being the way that he is, the wreck that he is, all haggard emotion and response (zero to ninety in seconds flat), he spins and lunges for Cloud, the cause of the noise, only hearing Sephiroth's smug voice.

Maybe he was just going to shake him, or pick him up, or punch a dent into him too—he doesn’t know, but he’ll never know. Reno is there to deflect him. He connects with his shoulder, knocking him vertical and away, back into the wall he just violated, and follows suit. He’s stressing his advantage and sterilizing any retaliation or verbal protest in the form of his unfolded blade snug to Zack’s throat. He is quick as a shot.

Zack stalls, having enough residual sense to realize the seriousness of the threat.

“Chill out, soldier boy,” Reno hisses.

His breath gusts coolly over Zack’s hot face.

“Now you listen, since I’ve got your attention. I need to make something clear... I sure as shit don’t need you, but you sure as shit need us. If we’re going to get through this—and I intend at least Cloud to—you’re going to need to be on your best behaviour, right?” Reno nods and raises his yellow-green eyebrows, wanting a nod back.

Zack slowly nods, the knife’s single tooth itching.

“Good,” Reno rasps, not letting up. “Now I’ve given you a chance because I think everyone deserves a chance, and I’m a bit of a gambler, and a real idiot. Or so I’ve been told. You seem to have a serious connection with our mutual friend here, whether I want to see it or not. You seem to oppose what I oppose, and you're fucking scary, yo. I was willing to let that and your apparent health issues slide, but now you’re edging into feral territory, friend, and you don’t want to be what tips my scale. Don’t make me take out all my fucking shit on you, because I want to, man, I want to, so bad, _so bad_ , and it would be fitting, _so fitting_ , but I can’t, yo, it doesn’t feel right. It’s not right. So. Fucking _chill out. Fair_." He removes the blade and gives him a rough shove on the last word, his bond.

Zack steps back once and thuds into the wall. He can only observe as Reno moves to help Cloud from the floor. The bodyguard’s words registered and now slip away, lost to the swirl of worries, soft voices, attention to Cloud and the dull but ever-present pain, ache and burn.

The blond shows no improvement. He’s a blank slate, unaware of the words he spoke and the consequences avoided. He might stand on his own but he's a body without a soul, just a vessel. He’s everything Zack was afraid to think of while getting here. 

To muscle down the sudden surge and sting of hate and hurt, he provokes pain, clenching both fists, fingernails digging palms. It’s little consolation, as the wound has already closed.

He sniffs, stung.

Where is calm? Where is cool and collected and disconnected and ready for more? Where is his training, his spirit, his experience? Where is his love, his devotion, his obsession? This isn’t Zack Fair. He’s no SOLDIER. He's hardly anyone or anything. He can't go on. No direction, no purpose, no function. He’s been cleansed of hero dreams by a tainted hero, and the all too eager need/love that swelled up afterward. He doesn't know what he's doing anymore.

(... _I can’t_ …)

He grabs his head and leans over, swell cresting.

The only thing to be grateful for is that Cloud won’t remember him. Not his actions, illness, outbursts, or degraded appearance. He hopes he won’t remember. Not any of it. Cloud can start a new life and put all this trouble to bed. He can still be someone.

He can almost see the horizon. He can almost see the credits rolling. He’s got to get him through this day, to the raggedy end, and the glorious new dawn. A moment of clarity returned, objective restored, he stands unbending as the SOLDIER he will always be. They’ve reached their stop, the roof, and he’s reached his peak.

 

 

The helicopter is waiting right where Reno said he left it weeks ago. There hasn’t been anyone to remove or service it so it’s remained as is, too far forward on the pad, and possibly bone dry. 

Everyone, if Zack had to guess, has either rallied to Rufus, the new president, or the war in Wutai (more than likely still waging), or said _screw it_ all together and gotten out while they still could. Shinra might be on its way out for good. Maybe Barret and Nanaki have been successful. Maybe all the other bad men are dead.

Zack’s grateful the change has come at all, though he wasn't the one to usher it in, like he’d always thought, was led to believe, and deeply hoped. He wasn't even on the right side, and now he might not be around to see it either.

They're looking out collectively into the gust and the gloom of the open sky from the monumental height, Shinra’s middle finger to the world. They're enjoying the fresh air, the break. There’s little but black and deep blue out there, the colours of midnight. 

Zack sees it inverted. He’s guessing on the accents, as it’s like overcast to him, a grey-green. There’s the black Moon and red dotted stars. It’s messing with his already so damaged head. 

Cloud stands between him and Reno. He followed his bodyguard straight from the lift and up the metal stairs to the raised helipad, rather than Zack. He didn’t push it, or even give it a try, Zack only waited for them to exit and then followed, bringing up a short tail.

Greener in the half-light, Cloud stands—or he was, would have been—he’s on his knees again, dropping hard to the grated platform edges. His unseeing eyes are trained on that night sky and a growing spectacle Reno again won’t understand.

The vault is not only that grey-green anymore, it’s turned to a true blue and black and the most livid of emerald. It’s in contention with the blond's already upbeat haze and malaise.

Zack spots the whole mess a little late, to his shame, caught up looking at Cloud and swallowing all the sorrow and shame that bubbled up as if it were mana to sustain him. He followed Cloud’s gaze into the distance, his answer a mix, a cocktail, equal parts resolve, terror and understanding. He can’t miss it now.

“He’s here,” he mutters.

Reno squints. “What? Where?”

“Chopper,” Zack reminds and yanks Cloud up from his repose.

Reno does not wait around this time, he follows them to the machine perched at their backs. They all pile inside together, Reno taking the pilot’s seat, Zack the co-pilot’s, and Cloud secured behind in the roomy cargo belly. Zack straps him in as tightly as he can, as quickly as he can. The kid would hardly be able to move if he did to begin with.

In the cockpit, Reno’s hands tremble, hovering over the console. He must not be too sure this big girl will even want to get off the ground after their last adventure. Or, he’s cold from being shirtless and blood sticky. Either way, he needs to commit and make a move.

“Hurry up!” Zack motivates.

“Don’t rush me!” Reno shouts back. “I’m not… I’ve never really…” He opens and leans out the pilot’s door, grumbling, eyeballing the fuselage and tail. He looks up to spy the props and take another glance at the brewing sky. “Fuck it. Here goes nothing.” He takes a sharp inhale and fires the engine, turning the starter.

Nothing happens.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he hisses, fiddling with the console, pressing buttons, flipping switches, turning the starter again and again. Nothing still. The gauges have power, but the bird does not. There’s no juice left. They’re grounded.

Zack looks to the developing clouds, roiling and shifting to their left. That telltale shade has intensified, looming and ballooning. There’s a flash, the distance miles off yet, but it’s surely closing. Another flash follows, blue and white, giving some indication of mass and speed.

It could just be a thunderstorm soaring forward, having formed off the coast; a cell coming in caught on the wind. Lightning and rain are bad conditions for even a well-oiled machine, but it’s never that simple. This might not be their best option but there isn’t another one left.

“The hell…?” Reno cranes to look at the event, abandoning his task.

Zack punches him in the arm.

Cloud, in the back, he starts to laugh. They both turn to look, two of a kind.

“I see you!” he gasps, choked and chuckling, leaning into his restraints.

(... _I see you, I see you_...)

Zack’s vision swims, threatens to bail altogether.

Reno refires the engine and the machine coughs in reply. The rotors twitch forward an inch and then stall. It’s progress, it’s hope, but it might be too late.

The cell-not-a-cell closes in, spreading its presence, filling the spacious sky. The cloudy mass now starts to melt as it drops and matches their altitude, drawing nearer. The lightning flashes intensify, arching and licking at the shrinking negative space between, glancing and catching metal. The increasing noise is static, crackling, and swelling all the louder.

“Come on, baby. Come _oooon_ ,” Reno chants over the chaos.

He again flicks the starter. The chopper's engine sputters, stutters. The rotors revolve once, twice, and then pick up speed, coming to life.

The cloud cluster meanwhile shreds, thinning to suggest something riding inside. A finned head breaches the fog as the props rev and cycle, the stormy image growing clearer, brighter, becoming a long neck coiled and curved. It lifts from the last puff of vapor like a pirate ship cresting a rogue wave, shape evident, shroud all but gone. They’re all seeing it now: a serpent, a dragon, great and giant, wingless and legless. It floats on the advancing wind, unfurling.

“Leviathan...” Zack marvels.

"I thought you said Seph—”

"Lift!" Zack bellows.

The creature is a memory from the past, a ghost supposed to be caught inside crystallized mako, materia, and illegal to own or use unless otherwise stated by the corporation that be. 

This monster has been summoned on this day, for personal reasons, and that means Sephiroth must be close by, watching and controlling. He will have more materia to gloat, and more pain to cause. He’s a crazed Shinra General after all.

The floating reptile ascends, touching down on the absolute pinnacle of the tower: the unreachable presidential suites still rising above their heads. A charge of lightning bleaches the sky behind it, turning the air frenzied and hot and the serpent into a shade.

It’s big enough to coil thrice around the chopper if it wanted to, and it looks tempted even with the props gyrating. It’s rearing high on its belly, a cobra ready to strike, livid and locked on.

The chopper rumbles, coughs, and starts a slow rise. Reno pulls the control stick to his chest and the right, avoiding the beast. The machine ascends nose first, sluggish. She might be rocking over, clearing the roof and the newcomer as quickly as possible, but the beast is quicker.

“Hold on!” Reno howls.

The serpent darts from its perch, crossing the helipad to slam bodily into the helicopter. Alarms blare, they shoot to the side, wobbling and swaying. The hit sends them right over the roof and free of the tower and sector 0 far below. That’s the good news. The bad news is the serpent’s tail whips as it passes, catching the rear of the fuselage, sending them into a spin.

Reno strains for control.

Zack reaches to hold onto what he can, throwing a quick look to Cloud in the back.

He laughs on, absolutely green.

“Gonna clear the city!” Reno shouts over the alarms, and Cloud, and the tide of disrupted air.

He gets her level from the spiral, his efforts winning out, but they’re still dropping. The chopper rocks and tilts, bringing the city’s plates into view. They’re lit up and living below, filling the windshield. They’re going to clear the city, but they’re still heading down.

“Losing power!”

That’s when the beast returns, just as they’re passing too closely to a dormant reactor and drifting over the final curving wall of Midgar. They drop into the sucked dry wasteland beyond, open and smooth for miles. If they weren’t about to get swatted out of the sky by an ancient wyrm, they would have had a decent shot at landing.

The creature glides along side, head bobbing, matching their descent. They have enough time to accept that they could be slammed into, and then they’re slammed into, the entire chopper rocking over.

Reno gnashes through it, all seven fingers and every muscle in his arms working, console blinking, screaming. He does his best, sky below, ground above, but they’re headed for a flaming end already predicted. Doomed to die in an aviation accident, they’re going to correct too late, nosedive and break up.

They spin and drop, rotors locked.

Zack braces.

The earth rushes up and the chopper connects, hitting hard, skidding and skipping on its side over the flat ground. It turns, hits an obstruction (a rock or a boulder), and then they’re rolling, flipping, tearing up the props and the skids, shearing the tail clean from the body.

When they come to an eventual sliding stop, knocked and shaken, alive and unbroken, the chopper is a crushed container around them.

Zack springs into action, uncoupling his belt and crawling back to the hold and Cloud. Granules of glass from the busted windshield skitter and roll from his shoulders and lap as he moves.

The blond is out cold when he gets there, head dangling, hair fallen forward. He doesn’t connect, he doesn’t feel, he unstraps and lugs him over a shoulder, climbing from the twisted wreckage. Pacing far enough removed into the nothing, Cloud’s head thudding his lower back, he sets him out in the dust, the dirt, the badlands of Midgar.

His half-thought plan is somehow panning out.

Here he is, knocked around, unsteady, head a static ball packed with cotton, bad memories and battery acid, but he’s ready. He's steadied faster than Reno. The bodyguard is still inside the chopper, moving around, swearing and muttering.

It hits him then.

“Shit, where’s my sword?”

He pats himself, as if it might have gone unnoticed on his person, and looks about.

The chopper (innards glowing residual white, red, yellow) and Reno's grey ghost aura are there. More debris there, and there, and there, if he focuses. The sword must have flung free along the ride. He pans the midnight horizon. He can’t see far without Cloud’s light source. He’s too dim at present.

“Your sword? The hell are my _guns_?” Reno complains, finally jumping free from the crashed machine. He stumbles and trots over, aura haze shifting and uneasy. He’s unarmed, shirtless, probably scraped and bruised, and he doesn’t seem to know what to do next.

Zack has an idea.

They should be moving away from the scene, not knowing where the beast is, but he can’t leave without a weapon. He won’t be of any use to anyone. He looks to the (otherwise impressive) gleaming city and their trailing touchdown in relief, scraped in deep like a scar.

Reno steps closer, breathing upbeat. He leans down to check Cloud.

Out there in the bleak, among the debris and rear rudder, Zack’s second scan reveals a dull blue aura lying in the dust trail. It’s the very sky blue of the giant sword. It’s a long way out, several clicks, and the beast, one hot thread of white and sea blue against city skyline, is back on the radar.

Zack does not hesitate. He makes a break for it, bolting into the unknown. He’s got to grab the sword before he and Leviathan meet somewhere in the middle, and well before it makes it over here. If that’s the case, let there be fireworks. If not... it’s been a trip.

“Zack!”

He dashes ahead, going all out, top speed, legs be damned. His head is throbbing, his vision pulsing, his heart galloping, his feet slamming hard.

The beast descends from the city side, drawing even to the ground, coming forward like a train, straight and narrow. 

Zack does not faint, he runs on, noting the sword and nothing else.

The moment comes, their distance diminishing, and Zack drops. He slides in sideways, arm reaching out for the article, fingers grabbing, stealing home. A flash engulfs him on contact, the result super heated and violent. He's clamping onto the handle, looking into the white light, the glow before darkness, the shine before despair.

The serpent glides overhead, missing its attack, deflected by the sudden outpouring. Squealing and crashing in it collides with the ground, rolling up, careening, carried by its momentum. It shoots well beyond Zack and over the dusty smooth terrain, skidding and flopping, crushing what was left of their wreckage and sliding still farther.

Zack picks himself up (muscles aching, head protesting, voices cheering) and makes the return dash.

Reno meanwhile assists Cloud, now half conscious, into the desert. The two are out in the open, the perfect targets for a belly flop, a snapping maw, a barb-laden tail flick. If they don’t double time it they’re going to end up as just more fuel for Zack’s eventual burnout.

The serpent recovers yards away, thrashing, turning, kicking up dust devils and shreds of metal and leftover helicopter. It’s a hail of carnage and garbage, and Zack arrives, skidding in, just as the beast rises to ready for an angry answer, vengeance, and maybe breakfast.

It climbs high, lizard jaws yawning, and wails. The screeching note is chilling to the soul and directed solely at Zack, the equalizer.

There’s little Reno can do, held up with Cloud’s weight and disarmed, but he positions himself in front of Cloud all the same, doing his heart and former occupation right.

There’s little Zack can do too, but he stands between them all the same, giant sword raised and ready, doing _his_ heart and former occupation right.

This could be glory and fame and honor for decades, maybe centuries, after the events rest and decay and all the players are gone. Either way, this is courage, disregard for bodily harm, and the understanding and acceptance of any and all suffering to come. And yet, this is also hope, so much hope, and determination, and crazy love, too much mako, sleep deprivation, and bottled up fury; a real kaleidoscope of joint suffering. 

The giant's sword is alive in his hands, brighter than any fluorescent bulb or spike from heaven. It’s disrupting his vision, bringing on the tones of artificial clement sky. He’s ready, ready or not.

The beast crashes in from above, a lunge heartbeat fast. 

His sword, up in part as a challenge, but primarily to deflect and swing an optimistic counter right back, catches the summon first. Its eyes (two charged ions, burning green, _his_ green) are all Zack needs. They’re all he can see.

He meets the resistance, rigid flesh and scales, with no little struggle, and the contact sends a surge through his hands, wrists, arms, shoulders, settling in his chest, snug up to his heart and guts. It’s much like the flash before but without the whole panache and brilliant show. It’s evident only in his following actions.

The fleshy barrier turns to nothing, the sword moves forward in his hands, eager, sweeping downward, biting deep, deeper, deepest.

It takes one slash and the beast’s separated body thumps to the ground, convulsive wriggle splashing blood, acid rain, onto Zack’s shoulders, back, and at his feet. The detached head rolls on for Reno and Cloud, as big as a car, but it stops, making little ground, mouth stuck wide, crying to the naked moon.

Wind whips, dust whirls and settles. The scent of copper and salt hits the air.

“It’s dead?” Reno asks at length, voice calling over their gap.

What was blue and white before becomes taunting, haunting, and fully green. The beast’s head and body begins to melt and dissolve where it landed, adding more to the dust and the grit and the surrounding desolation. Its flesh withers and flakes, bones crumble and fade, leaving behind nothing but a fresh splattering of black fluid and a coating on Zack.

In the swirling grey-green aftermath, something else remains. It’s upright, human in size, and planted where Leviathan’s bulk fell. It’s a shadow not a shadow, but a gem, a shining emerald in the dark.

Sephiroth has come.

Zack’s thumping heart skips, his faulty vision vibrates.

“Get Cloud out,” he demands of Reno and strides forward to meet the figure, his demon, their demon. He intends to draw his attention by stepping right into the fire.

Reno obeys and directs Cloud back to the desert and for a group of collected boulders for cover. There's a ridge and canyons ahead some miles, visible on the horizon on a clear day. Zack knows this, though he can’t see it. They could hide out there if they make it that far. They could then hitchhike to the next town. They could melt into a new society. They could recover.

“Here you are," Sephiroth greets, silk over river rock.

He does not approach. He has Zack come to him.

"Looking well, I see,” he taunts, green, that sickly green, like too much overgrowth, algae, bile, or filth; a walking bio hazard. "If only you had stayed by my side and obeyed like the trained dog that you are, I wouldn’t have had to come all this way. I wouldn’t have to tie up two loose ends and drag you back, kicking and screaming, for your punishment."

Zack allows the speech, counting every step of Cloud and Reno's retreat.

"We have business," Sephiroth continues, sighing. His accompanying shrug is theatrical, his boredom crisp, practiced. "Look at the mess you’ve caused. You’re hurt, they’re hurt. You’re confused, violent. You need me, Zack. Can’t you see that? Are you that blind? I don’t think that you are. I think you’ve been playing us all for the fool."

Zack wants to shoot a string of dialogue back, whittle the monster down just as much as he’s trying to do to him, but he’s strapped, he can’t breathe. He tries instead to bring the giant sword up, level and evident, but his arms cramp, his fingers freeze, and the weapon gets no further than half mast. He chokes his response, throat tight.

"You’re a little rough around the edges. A little willful, and too ambitious in the wrong places, but we can work on that. You’re strong and young. We can restore your good name. We can get everything back on track. You don’t want to disappoint your late parents, do you? You were wonderful to watch once. It’s such a shame to let true talent go.”

Zack’s vision flickers, fails. He's thrust into a blurred mosaic. He knows the wraith advances, coming for him, closing the too-short distance, his voice growing louder. He’s starting to smell him, and the blood and the tea and the smoke and the tears. He looks up into the shifting green soup and right into Sephiroth’s pallid face.

As the dirt sinks into his knees, the cold takes hold, the need for air burns, a hand materializes to rest on his cheek, cupping, warm and gloved. It soaks up the panic, the pain and the fear. His aching heart slows. He can again swallow and breathe, throat no longer revolting or closing up.

“There,” Sephiroth soothes.

He’s left with the fury and disgust and disappointment. He grabs for it, for anything, desperate, disjointed, coming apart at the seams, and it’s enough, it’s more than enough, and his vision reboots like an old tube TV, warming, heating, beating, living and swelling.

Sephiroth is now in fine relief: grotesque, sharp and right in front of him. He looms, leaning, taller still, some kind of mossy tree of the dead.

Zack’s enraged, but he’s not blind. He’s not swayed by words, afraid of consequences, or racked by agony. He lashes out with all of himself, and a bit extra.

The ground thunders, his skin boils, his muscles seize. He watches Sephiroth, the emerald shroud, the living legend, falter in surprise and then withdrawal, shot back.

The energy that crowds in and hurries out, the satisfaction that fills Zack up, it's intoxicating but draining. As soon as it irrupts, radiating outward, throwing Sephiroth from his range and view, Zack is down in the dirt again, on his hands and knees, panting like a sick dog. The spectral voices rise to manic yells. The shock comes soon after, panicked and mixing badly with the adrenaline.

There’s been incredible power bottled inside him. No matter his body’s inherent strength, he’s been too weak to contain it. The whispering voices have been so like the voices from materia, lost and ranting. He’s filled with pure mako. He’s powered and tortured by mako. It’s time it pulled its weight a little more around here. It’s time he started using it, rather than it using him.

He stands after a struggle, willing his tired body to work and rise; willing his mind to settle and focus. He sways, holds a moment, and then strives forward, one step, two steps. He’s heading back out to meet him. The giant sword at his side dragged. 

The battle’s been initiated and he threw the first punch. There’s every reason to think Sephiroth will retaliate with tricks and feints and guile. He’s a snake in the grass. 

“The hell am I?”

And boy, does he. 

Cloud steps into the arena, the worst trick of all, turning and looking. He wanders in as if he’d just been dropped from the sky.

Where Reno is doesn’t cross Zack’s mind. He’s not relevant. He’s diminished.

It’s only: _he remembers_.

“Cloud,” he calls, disputing all better judgement. He can’t help himself.

The blond’s head lifts and he turns to face him.

“Zack?”

“Yeah,” he croaks back, losing more of himself.

“That’s you?”

He’d honestly thought there wasn’t anything left but the voices, the pain, and the defeat holding his twisted body together anymore. He is habit, stubborn pride and confused cause. This must be it now. He’s been poured out. He’s finally empty. Take him home.

“That’s really you? Why are we in the desert?” Cloud’s glowing golden again, pure and brilliant with no blemish, and he’s coming to him, quickly closing their distance, filling his raw senses.

“What happened to you? You’re alive,” he mumbles, reaching out, going for his face.

Zack pulls away, rearing far back, and thankfully so. 

Sephiroth sends a blistering fireball their way.

They stumble apart, the blaze smothering into nothingness between them.

Zack retaliates just as quickly, rage boiling anew, flowing and coursing. It heats his skin, scorches the grip of his blue flame sword. He launches into the fray, leaving Cloud, marking only Sephiroth’s green haze and aiming to snuff it out. His charge is fueled, flame licked, fire for fire.

Sephiroth blocks with the Masamune, containing the onslaught. He tosses him away, flicking out his own blade in return, slashing and catching, drawing blood.

Zack dances and dodges, giant sword clanging and sparking.

Sephiroth swings and swipes, deflecting and countering, pushing forward.

They parry and shuffle and slide, moving always for Cloud.

He watches from the fringes, pacing this way and that, just a spectator. He has little option but to stay put, run to those boulders and the ridge miles out, or back to the beast city.

Zack matches Sephiroth admirably, but he’s losing ground. The General is playing with him. His tactics are sly and slithering. He approaches like a lion, strong and overpowering, and then he draws back to watch and wait, tormenting his tiring prey to the final death blow.

Zack knows the tactics. He’s fought along side him many times before. There’s not much he’s got for him in return but his stamina, and that’s been in question since after their very first crash.

He dodges jab after jab, but does not come out unscathed. He is not the better swordsman. He’s being snipped and slashed, torn and shredded. The wounds heal and close almost as quickly as he gets them, but he won't last forever. He’ll soon succumb to his hail of cuts.

He needs to find a way to overpower a powerhouse, or trick a trickster.

“Zack!” And Cloud’s too damn close. 

“Get the hell out of here!” he shouts, not turning to look.

“Watch out!” Cloud returns.

Zack deflects the charging thrust, jumping back.

“Listen to how concerned he is,” Sephiroth mocks, following up, knocking him off balance.

“Fuck you,” Zack hisses, swinging out and missing, giving the malachite wraith ample opportunity to send a knee into his unguarded side.

“Give me the chance,” Sephiroth retorts, snide.

Zack grunts and staggers, pushes the retreat, working backwards, wanting and needing a break. Blood drips, sweat streams and steams, his chest heaves. It will bring them precariously closer to Cloud and last for only as long as Sephiroth allows.

“Never again,” Zack tells him, breathy. He stings all over, cut to ribbons.

This isn’t like sparring or the good old times. This is different and wrong and all bad. He’s having trouble keeping a grip on the mammoth, surrogate sword, blood wetting and sticking and crumbling and rewetting. He’s out one glove and that’s not helping. Been switching the thing from one hand to the other, playing pickle with his own mitts. The slick that gums him up will cause an eventual slip, a disaster, death. He rests his forearm across handguard.

“I ought to tell you how sweet your boy was while we wait,” Sephiroth considers, inspecting Masamune, his gloves, the ground, one after the other. He allows the pause, showing no wear, weakness, or intent to strike. “I ought to fill you in, before we finish this, because you’ll never have the chance again.” 

Zack swallows and urges for calm.

“He cries so softly and gently. So warm and lean and smooth. Especially flexible and resilient. He smells like ocean sand, beechwood. And he begs, Zack. My favourite part, you should know, you should remember.”

Zack can feel the bile rising up his throat, burning an ugly line the entire mile-long way to the back of his already stripped throat. He coughs and swallows, trying to contain the rush and his mind, and his cool, but he’s having a touch of trouble. He’s not hearing him. He’s not listening. He’s not picturing every horror and position and cry out and retaliation and muscle spasm and the wonder, the wonder of _where he is, where’s Zack during all of this?_

“Quiet,” he mutters.

“He took every inch and begged for more.”

_Click, click._

Zack lifts his head.

“Can’t you fight like a gentleman?”

Appearing out of thin air, Reno tramples what would have been the General’s continued tirade by saying his piece and cocking the slide and safety on his located 45. handgun. He must have worked his way behind while Sephiroth snarked and prodded, and Zack reeled.

“This is for my brother,” he growls now, waiting not a second longer, and squeezes the trigger.

To his surprise and horror though, when he pulls that trigger and the hammer drops, nothing happens. The handgun clicks again, and again, and again. It’s the chopper revisited.

He must not have checked it before returning, already spending too much time searching and cursing, and now the round has lodged. Whether it’s the direct cause of the residual power heavy in the air, the dust and grit from the crash, or the odds leveling out against him, there are no good results for Reno.

Sephiroth steps a foot back, turning his upper body and the Masamune. He’s making to catch Reno in the guts for his misfortune. In unison and retaliation, Zack’s stomping a foot to the ground, snapping an energy bolt their way, casting magic once again without materia. It’s a soldier’s reflex just as much an experiment, and it works.

The bolt crawls, shoots and sparks over the earth towards them, beating the General, crashing in first. It collects on the katana’s handle, marches down the blade, disregards Sephiroth, and curves into Reno, hitting him square in the bare chest. He cries out and rockets backward, landing hard in the billowing dust, decommissioned.

Sephiroth pauses and then turns again to Zack, flicking the Masamune level at his head.

“Very good,” he growls, iron on brick. He’s losing the enjoyment of the upper hand.

“Leave them... out of this,” Zack demands, sword now raised, breath again lost.

“Why?” Sephiroth mutters. He looks away, shakes his head, lowers his blade. “I don’t understand. Why them over me? All I’ve ever wanted... was to bring you to your full potential… show you the way… but you refuse me, continually, and now you’re failing to impress. You’re sympathetic, weak and ruined. You’ve betrayed me. You’ve betrayed your fate.”

Reno lies unmoving in the dirt, unconscious or dead.

Cloud stands on the sidelines, helpless but too loyal to flee.

Zack is ready to press the temporary advantage of Sephiroth’s wondering, to stampede in there and sweep an arch up his unprotected front, level things out, but he’s struck by a delayed quivering attack. He quakes and nearly drops his sword. He nearly swoons. The old nausea rushes up, salty saliva filling his mouth. He spits and coughs, burning up. Every open cut throbs. Every healed cut itches.

“Weak,” Sephiroth repeats. 

Through the rising heat, the strain and the stress, Zack gets an idea. A desperate idea.

“I was tricked,” he starts, standing erect and starting forward, not steadily. “I thought I was getting one thing and ended up with another. That’s my fault, I guess. I can be stubborn and one-track minded with the best of them. I’m not cautious and I don’t think things through. All I wanted then was fame and love... and your respect.”

Sephiroth does not wait or show any more patience for rest or words.

Cloud calls out again, distant, and then he’s howling, bellowing, “My eye!”

Zack looks over, not surprised, but distressed due to his nature and damnable love all the same.

Cloud is grabbing at his head, palm over his left eye, grinding, rubbing, and he’s hunched over, doubled, on his knees. He’s gritting and groaning and shaking, trying to stick it out, trying to muster through, or squash it, and come out sane on the other side.

In his turning, not just his head but his upper body too, Zack gives Sephiroth all the window he might have needed, and he doesn’t need much. He moves like light, or shadow, faster than your eye could track. Masamune bursts through Zack’s chest with a liquid splash, a pop.

“I always liked taking you from behind,” Sephiroth gusts into his ear.

Zack chokes and spits, heat and fluid rising over his tongue. He drops his sword.

Cloud’s cries are muted. He might be watching again.

“What I have now… is pain and love…” Zack musters regardless, dropping to his knees, being forced by the instruction of Sephiroth.

Using Zack’s shoulder as a brace, he rips Masamune from its depth like Excalibur from the stone.

“And th-the truth,” Zack stammers, voice dropping and rising, unreliable. “I didn’t need any of it... the fame, the power... the ideal.”

He falls, pushed forward by Sephiroth’s boot. He writhes and sneers, holding in the groans and sounds of pain, denying him the pleasure. He turns to his back and leans up, fighting to stand, fighting to fight. He’s going to show him weak. He’s going to show him something.

He gets his legs under him, tries once to stand, fails, and rises on the next groaned attempt.

“I never needed you, you twisted fuck,” he says and spits at Sephiroth’s feet. Blood red runs, flows over his teeth and chin, his chest.

He can’t see the madness and the horror he has allowed himself to become. He is all he’s ever known as right and wrong. Inside a place like Shinra, Sephiroth’s only ever been his moral metre. He is the ultimate: the beginning and the end. He is parent, teacher, friend. He wants his own satisfaction, like everyone and anyone else would. He’s still human. He wants everything and nothing and destruction and sorrow for all, to match his own, to eclipse his own.

“You’re a monster, man,” Zack admits. “And I’m gonna kill you.”

Sephiroth darts forward those few feet in separation and runs Masamune into Zack’s abdomen, every angry inch sticking, every angry inch slicing.

“Not if I kill you first,” he contests, green grin blossoming, vivid as ever, inches away.

Cloud cries out for him. Cries out his name, his handle, his shame.

_Zack._

He does not dodge, deflect, or falter. Even if he could, he wouldn’t have. He allows the motion, expecting and accepting. He stands still, reacts little, taking the attack and the blade again as any dealt in the past. They pause in an embrace, Sephiroth holding him just as much as he’s killing him.

(... _hurry, hurry, no time_ …)

Zack concentrates, reminded of his plan, the fever inside boiling and burning, the pain of the newest wound distracting and increasing, but also the best fuel this side of Cloud’s screams and sorrows and hopes and regrets.

Sephiroth might have thought causing him distress and unbalance would have given him the edge and the eventual victory, but no. That’s not the case at all. Zack’s been looking forward to this day, running toward the outcome from day one, whether he was aware of it or not. He’s always been going up and up: the ladder, the mountain, to the impossible height. Here he goes again, ascending all the way, ready to stride on over the clouds. There’s no return trip. No more spiralling down the rabbit hole, no more trudging through the mud.

He’s got Sephiroth right where he wants him, and he grabs on, grip so very weakened but able and determined. He’s hugging him close for a last time, a first time, taking on every responsibility of his past and present and streaming on ahead for the future.

The swelling fever is hot and choking and soon surrounds them both. It’s a blaze brightening, ready to sear and consume, all the power and anger and sorrow of his trial renewed and flying out of him. He no longer tries to contain it but riles it forth, pushing and pressing, not fearful, not needing caution. He lights up. They light up. The skies light up. This is absolution.

Sephiroth is panicked, or in pain, or both. He wrenches and twists himself from the grip. He’s trying to lift his arms or turn aside, twist Masamune. Zack feels nothing but the supernova blush, the static solar flare, the spell building, the mako stewing, and before it becomes too much, his former hero, former lover, he gives him the best payback for all the strife endured.

Sephiroth turns in his struggling, outlined more blue than green, a bruise, and looks him right in the face. As if finally regretting his choices, and desires, and realizing his miscalculations, he shows Zack real fear, true terror, the kind reserved for the undeniable moment before obliteration—and then he’s gone, burned up, caught by all of Zack’s wrath.

The whirlwind erodes Sephiroth where he stands, sweeps him away, cleansing the world of his sickly green, and the odachi blade from Zack’s guts. The flash and glare explodes to fill the atmosphere, vibrating outward, flowing free, continuing its marching over miles of flat land and into the slums of Midgar, and very likely to the coast. All that bottled up and trapped mako disperses (green, blue, orange, red, a rainbow, a cascade), going back to where it originated, leaving Zack like essence might leave a body.

The night is again chill and dense.

Zack collapses.

There’s nothing more for him to do, or to see. Whether he’s still alive and not a spectre himself now he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t yet care. He’s at ease, the voices are quiet, the pain and fear and sorrow are quiet. He might finally get some rest. He might finally be done.

Cloud finds him after a time, after a minute or an hour or a day. It wouldn’t matter. Zack feels his presence, but not his fingers, his heat, or his breath. He can’t yet hear his voice either, assuming he’s speaking at all. He’s blind, truly, and numb. Nothing out there but shade, chalkboard, pitch. There’s no golden glow overhead, no faint signs, no aura or haze or wisps. No nausea or ache or sting either. It’s all gone, discharged with the mako and the monster.

He's all set to bleed out in the badlands now it seems. Nothing left to heal his physical hurts but good ol’ genetics. The unreachable and more than impractical amount of healing potions, surgery, therapy, bed rest, cigarettes, and hamburgers are too far off.

Reno could be dead.

Cloud might not be able to locate a rescue.

He reaches out, grabbing for the blond, his trophy, his everything. He finds the top of his head and pulls him down. “Is he gone?” he rasps into his hair. It hardly registers in his own ears.

“I… I watched… What I could see...” Cloud answers, muffled but discernable. “He’s… gone. He’s gone.”

Zack sighs a wheezy, wet and overdue sigh.


	23. Chapter 23

_Status: Unknown - Location: Midgar badlands_

He’s locked in his arms, forehead pinned to his chest and steeped in a warm and wet wound. Zack isn’t letting him go. After two or three tugs, and one mumble, Cloud begins to realize it’s not because he doesn’t want to, it’s because he can’t—he’s unconscious.

“ _Zack_?”

_Zack… Zack… ZACK…_

_He’s circling the drain, dizzy, guzzled too much too-think air. There is no pain. He has so little left to feel anything anymore, but he does feel cold, frigid, polar. Still, there are flashes, on and off, just neurons firing, misfiring, dying. Here’s a glimpse and a shift, a tidal shift, a tectonic shift. Here’s what might be Cloud, the sky, a bird. What he’s seeing must be memories, ghosts, manufactured images of the present, or something somewhere else, dangling and half-caught in between._

Cloud tugs and pulls, tries to stand, tries to lift, blood smearing, boots skidding.

He makes no progress.

“Reno?”

_If you’re back at home smoking your first cigarette, you’re not in the dirty reality, are you? You’re miles away, years apart, living it up and coughing your lungs out, still filled with all that fight and wonder and dreaming. The vitality of ignorance and hope and youth hasn’t yet dissipated like so much smoke. You’re not chest deep in your own blood, mixed and mortared with red-orange sand and dust, two minutes from death’s door, drained and draining, no more life left to give._

A long moment stretched thin.

No response.

He'll have to continue on his own.

He wiggles and pulls, not being too careful anymore, just trying to be clear. As seconds pass, turn to minutes, he finally rears backwards in a minor hysteric, legs doing the hard work, and gets himself extricated.

What he sees when he’s free, standing on his own two wobbling legs, among the dust and the night and the battlefield, is an image that burns into his mind, sears in like a red hot brand.

Here's his fallen hero, as dead in that moment as he has ever been. Now he’s a stranger, just a limp body on its back in the dust, in the dark; arms at its sides, wrists up, head turned to the side, dingy bandages come loose, cut, slashed, bloodied.

And he just stands there looking over him.

"Reno!?"

He drops back down, not too close at first, not entirely wanting to be, not entirely ready to be, but he has to check the damage, he has to help if he can. 

This isn’t a body, or a stranger, this is Zack. This is kindness and worry and wonder and power and love, and the closer he gets, the more he can see.

This is many cuts and gouges speckling his arms, his forehead, cheeks, head, stomach, legs and probably crossing his back too. Even in the darkness they look deep. Others are barely there, just whispers, glances, pecks. The one that stands stark against it all, catches his attention after another wary glance, and that’s the slash for his heart, the bursting surprise. It's bleeding heavily, gushing over his chest, over his side, and pooling at the ground.

He peels up his torn shirt to get a better idea. It doesn’t reach as high as it needs for him to investigate properly, even with it so shredded. It’s too damn dim to make anything out, but nothing looked good, and he can’t stare for long.

With no resources close by, and Reno out of the picture, he’s got to use his brain. He’s got to get him warm, aware (if he can be so lucky), and he’s got to stop the bleeding. Zack is too heavy for him to move on his own and he shouldn’t (and can’t) leave his side.

He doesn’t give it another thought. He removes the Shinra sweatshirt from his back, leaving behind the thin undershirt for himself, and presses the bundle to the worst of the wounds. The sweatshirt might be thick and too large for him, but it’s not quite large enough for the job. It’s soaked, no longer light grey, and growing cool already.

“Zack,” he whispers, needing to do something, needing the contact, the confirmation, a glimmer.

All he can do is pray and keep his palms pressing. His arms will shake, his shoulders will shudder, his head will hang, and his mind will wander. He won’t think of how cold it is, and just how arctic his fingers are drenched in his cold blood.

Zack won’t last long like this.

He can’t see his chest rise, and he can't feel it either. 

He could be desperate to save a dead person. 

"Reno!?" 

Don’t let him be dead.

“Zack…wake up… get up… come on…”

He can’t be dead.

 

 

_Status: Unknown - Location: Unknown_

All a person has in this world—the only thing, the one standing immortality, the one monument that will last on and be remembered—and that’s a name. 

Sephiroth told him that.

What’s in a name? His name? Fair?

It sounds like irony and tastes like blood.

When all you know is a blank, what is left of your imagination makes you a time traveler. You’re not part of the normal flow of things. You’re an outsider, _the outsider_ , riding on the tattered fringes of what was, is, and what could be. You’re the fly on the wall, the painful past, and you’ll soon be forgotten.

He’s been here before, dead or dying, but things are different. If that makes sense. The space around him is closer, heavier. Here’s comparing to the last shivering glimpses, of course. This darkness is familiar and open, limitless, but it’s also alien, constrictive, and damnably one note.

Residual sensations of movement, of being dragged, of sliding, falling, and bitter wetness over his dried out tongue. Twisted snaps of hard toiled pain and victories hard won. Urgent voices, air blasting, roaring in. It’s a mental setting. It’s come and gone. It’s not tangible.

Normality might be some kind of far out dream, but this is still odd.

He’s not done falling, circling that drain, when he opens his eyes. The lids part reluctantly, as if from a long sleep, but more likely a hibernation slumber, and then. Bitter defeat. There’s nothing for him to see. There’s nothing for him to see _with_. 

He must be alive, and he must have been having a lucid dream, or phantom _eye_ syndrome, because those guys, his eyeballs, they’re _gone_. _Medical waste_ gone. _Zipped up and tossed out with the trash_ gone. You don’t get points for trying here.

He doesn’t have to wait long to feel assured he’s awake, alive, in pain. The prickling sensation in his fingers and toes begins to come back, along with a steady pressure in his skull. As he rouses, drops into himself, he’s getting hints of heat all around, turning hotter when he stirs. His flesh is so suddenly liquid hot, and where they aren’t torn or bruised, his sore muscles are loose.

He might not have his old friend, mako aura sight, to fall back on, but he does have his hearing and his other returning senses. They were great then, in the Shinra days, so they’re going to be exceptional now, after the fall.

What aroma breaches his stuffed nose is pleasant. When he breathes, ragged, the air is moist through his parched mouth and throat. Sounds come on in stages, over-clear. There’s water dripping, rebounding. The tones of fabric, cloth shuffling, shifting. A body, _some_ body close by.

He's got it.

Could he be so lucky?

Could he be hallucinating?

He’s sure of it though. He’s sure he feels it swish over his hands and ankles. There it is rising for his lap, disturbing and rippling, because he’s leaned deep inside a bathtub, the depth of the water no higher than inches and hot as a sauna. 

“What good timing,” he croaks, not fully expecting his throat to work.

Whoever is out there startles and water splashes.

“Sorry,” he quickly offers.

“No, no, no,” Cloud stammers. “It’s okay. You just… I can’t…”

“We can’t tell if you’re awake or not,” Reno interjects, getting pretty damn good at it too.

Zack smiles, genuine enough, although not entirely in a good-natured vein. His nerves are waking up, getting cranky. The expression pulls at old, healed cuts and old, unhealed wounds. 

“Good to know I didn’t kill you,” he says. “Answers how you got me in here.”

“That’s not funny. You’re fucking heavy, yo,” Reno growls.

“Reno. Can you…?” Cloud means to say _get out_.

The bodyguard formerly a bodyguard (still a bodyguard), he quiets just like that. He doesn’t sniff or grumble (to say nothing of possible facial expressions and gestures), he picks himself up to leave the room, pulling the door behind. He received the message loud and clear.

Cloud’s voice was authoritative, level, something not necessarily new but only hinted at in the past. He meant no funny business and got the point across in as few syllables as possible.

Zack has to wonder what must have happened between them while he was out and they toiled and tormented over his body. So many potential changes to note and confirm. So many cracks, damages and corrections to think about and ease. And this is just Cloud we’re talking about.

Picture bones that have healed badly. Skin scratched and peeled over and over, raw and bleeding, torn, tortured, hidden just under the surface, just under a shirt sleeve, just behind the curtain fall and out of view. Picture survival, harried and heavy.

This Cloud could be all he remembers, and more.

Hopefully (oh, one can hope), there's not too much from recent events.

Water sloshes, trickles. He must have a bowl of it on hand.

In angry response, Zack’s cuts and nicks, healed and not, begin to sting and protest in the heat and the sweat. His already aching head throbs a spike behind his former eyes. The world is greeting him with a glorious kick and a cry.

He all too quickly identifies the two wounds Sephiroth left him with.

There’s the one over his heart, and then, just a few inches below that, the one in his side.

He raises and hovers a dripping wet hand over his chest, over his gut, over damp bandages. He doesn’t touch, he doesn’t even get close, but fresh, hungry pain flows in anyway, filling every empty gap and splintering break he calls a structure.

Two punctures, two pains. One for leaving, and one for not coming back.

He takes a sharp, shaky breath, only riling more suffering.

“You okay?” 

“Sure,” he hisses, rising up the lip of the tub, using the action as a front for readjusting.

Really, he’s trying to crawl away from it all.

Cloud falls quiet. He must not know what to say, sensing his pain. He seemed to be this way from the beginning. A little quiet, a little removed, a little too smart (or is it sensitive?) for this gig. Definitely too self aware, and too damn hard on himself. It didn’t take long to determine, and it's all a part of what sparked Zack’s interest in the first place. A decision after a reaction he has little hope to resist to this very day.

He strives for cool, not imagining his nakedness or Cloud’s nervousness.

“I, uh…” Cloud stalls, back to his awkward self. “I was... washing you. Reno just checked in. You moaned and moved. You haven’t done that... in a while.”

“Oh,” Zack breathes.

“If you want... I’ll leave. You can—”

“Don’t do that,” he urges, leaning towards Cloud’s voice but stanching the desire to reach out. It already feels like too much, and the words only continue to come. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t care. Might not be able to see you... but I can feel you there. That’s fine with me.”

The silence is heavier now, fully loaded.

He tries to relax in the heat and sting, sinking low. He goes for smooth and cool and too damn used up. He reaches deep for calm and composed and bottom of the barrel.

He doesn’t have to go far.

“I don’t...” Cloud mumbles.

His small voice, his gentle voice, layered over the trickle and play of water. He’s too good for this. He’s made for greatness, for caring, not for crashing and smashing into everyone and anything. He’s not purposed for death and war and picking up the pieces.

“It might be a little late, but… I want to say... thank you... and, and—” Cloud's losing it, slipping into thick and painful territory, fighting off the shame, the anger. “ _Sorry_ ,” he blurts, making it through. “It feels pretty… lame, you know. They’re just words. You deserve... something better.”

Zack’s jaw sets hard.

He _is_ hallucinating.

Cloud’s steady fingertips arrive then, throwing him off. The washcloth touches after, easing him down. The wet fabric presses to his right cheek, glides along his jawline, chin, temple and forehead, and then passes to the other side to follow up, making him thorough. The slight pressure is hot, gentle, fragrant, and calms the ache, the pain, the worry.

There's nothing better than a good rub down after a long drought.

Cloud smooths on, dragging the cloth lower. He tracks over throat, collarbone, shoulders, arms, and chest, avoiding bandaged wounds, rewetting from the filled bowl as needed.

And Zack, he does his best not to lean too eagerly into every motion. He’s grateful for the heat, and the steam, that’s for sure. Not too likely to cop a stiff one if you can’t breathe.

He’s so quickly getting lost, boiling and brewing, reaching and leaning, lifting up like a too needy feline. He was doing decent enough, he thought, white-knuckling the rim of the bath, but then, Cloud leans him forward and runs the cloth as far down his spine as it will reach, pressing hard, pressing out the ache, and now he’s groaning, purring deep in his chest, and that’s it, that’s all she wrote.

Cloud gives him an amused snort and pauses to rewet.

Zack has grown hotter, heated by a rush already molten.

“How are you blushing?” Cloud asks.

“Shut up,” Zack grates back, throat scalding.

“Sorry,” Cloud mumbles (not really sorry).

How much Zack can’t see, how much he has to guess at and construct, is making him nervous regardless of the obvious ribbing. He doesn’t get nervous. Not like this anyway. There weren’t many social interactions that bothered him enough to make him truly anxious, self-aware, or cautious. He is action and resolve. He thinks somewhere after the fact. Sometimes not at all. There was never anyone he cared about _this much_ to make impressions a factor.

Family doesn’t count. He’ll always put up with their dysfunctions.

Sephiroth made him nervous, sure, but that’s understandable. He made everyone nervous.

This is a new breed of terrifying. He doesn’t want Cloud to be afraid of him, or disillusioned. He doesn’t want to screw up anymore. He doesn’t want that faith to die, or to have died. Just how much did he have to begin with? He only pulled him from the scorched wreckage of a helicopter once. That qualifies as hero material? That pushes him into shining knight territory?

Everything he did prior, every mission success, every medal, or quotation, or nod, it’s nothing. He wasn’t there before Sephiroth, and he wasn’t there after. That’s the score. He doesn’t know where he stands anymore. He sure wasn’t expecting to still be _here_. Reno could be higher on the totem pole.

“I missed you,” Cloud says, matter of fact, voice under control.

Zack’s entire body throbs and aches, his throat again seizes.

Cloud’s breath, otherwise masked in the steam, was a three-puffed enunciation.

Reaching out not too far, Zack hooks him under the arms and drags him right back into his lap, right into the tub with him, half splayed over his bare chest. The bowl dumps and clatters.

Zack hugs him close, ignoring any judgment on his wounds, or Cloud’s immediate comfort. He just needs to feel him, make sure he’s whole, make sure he’s real.

Dismissing his worries and giving him a good dose of sweet relief, Cloud squeezes right back. He sits there in his naked lap and sinks right into the clench of the tub, thighs bordering hips, chest to chest. His head he buries into Zack’s neck under jaw line, arms crossing and locking at the base of Zack's bare skull.

Zack’s pulse begins to run, heat sweltering.

He can smell him, the hints of his hair and flesh, the sandy beechwood he was told about. He wrestles with the sour memory (his last embrace and Sephiroth’s digging) and hugs him all the tighter, not wanting to succumb to the bleak, not wanting to let him go.

Cloud accepts, squeezing just as tightly back, just as desperately, the still-hot water soaking into his clothing, wicking away what little there already was from around Zack’s naked flesh.

Zack’s prize for surviving the day, for beating the bad guy, for propelling them into a new future, and it’s Cloud. It always has been, proclaimed from day one.

Cloud lifts his head after a good beat. It was starting to make Zack's neck stiff anyway. He must be looking into his wrecked face now.

He can see him if he thinks about it, and none too hard either. There’s a fresh image of Cloud in his head always. As fresh as the day he first saw him standing in that hallway. He has slides, like mugshots. Cloud, the original. Cloud, damaged and half-dead. Cloud here, Cloud there. Turn and lift, there he is, blue eyes, blond hair, soft as his namesake.

Not nearly as soft as his lips.

Ravenous. That's a good word. That's what Zack is. He didn't initiate the action but he's already taking it over. He's not sweetly returning the peck, or pressing lightly and easily back, enjoying the heat and the scent and the moment of their somewhat graceless reunion.

No, not at all.

He's crashing in and twisting inside, all hot, thick tongue, need and desire. He's lapping him up, crazed for more, hissing in pain and passion, knowing no restraint. He’s starving for him, having been denied so long. He tilts and holds Cloud’s head, holds his face, angles for a dive and slides all the way down, past lips and teeth.

Here are hints of his last stand.

His enemy is not the General, but self control. It burns away just as neatly.

He licks and groans, tries to rise into Cloud, tries to pull him closer, always closer.

His damsel, his totem, charm, Golden Fleece, Holy Grail, shroud, everything under _and_ the damn Sun—he returns the effort, the excitement, clumsily and too heavily breathing, reaching. He grips and holds, fingers slipping, sliding, slight weight becoming a real presence.

What a good time for Reno to appear.

That might have been a floorboard creaking just now, under Zack’s breath, as they slide and move, but then, it could have been Cloud’s hummed whine after he disconnects for a better angle, or his naked flesh on porcelain, or his mucked up imagination.

He comes to mind either way, that lightning fast bodyguard. He would have been alerted by the bowl bouncing off the floor. He would have come to look after the crash. He’s probably standing in the adjacent room, frozen just in the doorway, just outside. He might not like what he sees, at worst. At best, he might very well be jealous.

That doesn’t worry Zack much, if at all. Being watched has its thrills.

Frankly, he’s too busy climbing his way inside Cloud through his lips and down his tongue, and feeling, mapping, cataloguing every part of him, to be worried.

He’s alive.

He’s living.

He’s worshiping at his shrine.

Let him watch.

 

 

He insists upon walking on his own, fresh from the tub.

Not so busted up he can’t move from point A to point B, but he might be. He rises to a stand, clears the lip of the tub, heat residual and steaming (Cloud close by, a shoulder to lean on), and isn’t so sure about it after all. Here he goes falling again, standing still.

“Do you want—” 

“I got this,” he mutters.

Cloud can’t help but want to help.

Zack can’t help but refuse to need it.

“Couldn’t wait your turn?” Reno prods upon catching Cloud’s wet clothes.

Cloud doesn’t respond, he gets Zack settled.

Zack doesn’t ask how they got him out of there, the desert, the night of Sephiroth’s dispatch, and he doesn’t ask where they are now. He sits upright, listening to the world around him, reeling in the present, the truth: he is alive, and so is everyone (so to speak) else.

Not much else matters.

Consciousness, reality, it’s a hum in the background, the ground under his feet, the design on the walls, the colour of his hair. It’s details, subjective, and it will still be there, it will still exist, even if he doesn’t think about it, know about it, or have any other interaction. What is real now falls under what he can imagine and what he can feel, and what he feels is lost at sea.

“Hungry?” Cloud asks, still close by.

“Starving,” Zack sends into the void.

Until he’s drawn back in with conversation he’s not a real boy. And, to his misfortune, that conversation so quickly leaves him behind. It’s not on purpose. This Cloud is busy being team leader. He drifts away to start up a dialogue with Reno, noting their need for supplies.

Zack sits by, half in and half out.

“Sure,” Reno returns. “Don’t want anyone to see him until we’re on our way outta here though. He's too weak for travel, or much more than standing to use the toilet. That’s obvious enough. Thanks to his good timing too, we’re going to need twice the food.”

They’re not going to let him outside. That can go without saying. Reno likes stressing it anyway. He’s stressing a lot of things, getting a little worked up, getting a little annoyed. He goes on as if Zack’s not sitting right there, plain as day, erect and able to hear him.

“If he wants to get his ass up finally, we’re going to need more bandages. A lot of bandages. And more drinking water, and other supplies. Depending on how quickly we want to get the hell out of here, more shit still. Two people can carry more, yo. I’m gonna need your help."

Depending on how long he’s been out, and where they actually are, their caution might be a little much yet. Still, there’s only three of them and one giant company (complete with its own army) on the other side. They’ve been lying low: Cloud the babysitter and Reno the errand boy.

Whether or not that company is concerning themselves with locating their band is unknown. The new president may or may not be dismayed that his best asset was killed by a ghost.

“You’ve got a point,” Cloud agrees, albeit reluctantly.

They have to start thinking about moving on again, about long-term. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to leave Zack alone, unattended and vulnerable. Which is fair enough and warranted. He’s a recently resurrected blind fugitive, as much of a danger to himself as anything else. But, in the end, there’s little he can do.

Closing the door on their way out, Reno calls back, "See you soon.”

Zack has no comment and little room for complaints.

Maybe he really is on board with their trio and is just trying to help. Or maybe he wants the alone time with Cloud for a kaleidoscope of distressing reasons.

Zack can’t say. He can only stay. He's hungry, _ravenous_ , tired, achy. He'll rest and enjoy the afterglow of Cloud and being alive (the relief of not feeling like a bomb about to go off, and no more crushing stresses of the task) and let them handle it.

He'll take his medicine, he'll take his break.

 

 

Turns out it isn’t much of a break.

_He’s back in the tower, Shinra Headquarters’ spiral and crown, and he’s free. He’s not restrained, or drugged, or blind, but still he’s trapped. He can see the floors and the walls of his cage around him. He can see his legs and boots, hands and arms, and a giant glass window ahead. Peering through the pane he sees into another room, an observation room._

_There’s a spread of tools on a steel bench. A wheeled stretcher, and something or someone strapped in, boiling under the beam of an overhead light and the spread of a sheet._

_There is no access from Zack’s side. No cracks in the walls or any indications of an opening anywhere. It’s all smooth, one tone, and then there’s the glass, thick and shimmering. He can’t get out, and he has nothing but his mitts. If he wants to smash on the partition and bloody himself to a pulp, he can. That might be his best and only option of protest._

_There is a development then, on the far side, and a group enters the observation room. A collection of white-shrouded figures and someone of great interest and detest._

_Here saunters Professor Hojo among the masked crowd. As he comes to the center of the room, the laden stretcher, now surrounded, he stops and turns to face the glass barrier and Zack, stuck on the other side. The sheet Hojo tears from the body in a flourish._

_Zack begins to pound the glass, the rumbling reverb and thud of his fists a storm._

_He calls out, threatens, pleads, but his throat sticks and nothing escapes._

_Nothing escapes._

_Zack_.

He’s startled by the clarity of the voice, like the cut of a knife.

Nightmare images slide and he bolts upright, causing a dizzy rush to his head.

No more vision, no more seeing. He’s back in the sting of real things.

“Old man fell asleep,” Reno offers next.

They’ve returned from their outing.

He had fallen asleep.

 

 

The food they brought is tasteless.

Zack could identify the hunger pangs, he could feel his stomach grumble, but as soon as he takes a bite of bread, or cheese, or whatever, it could have been cardboard, he tastes nothing and he isn’t satisfied. It’s thick and solid on his tongue. It’s chalk, gravel, coal. He forces every swallow and every roll of his jaw, mashing up the next tedious bite.

After the meal, things remain quiet.

Reno broods in silence.

Cloud falls into a well.

Well, not really, but he goes quiet too.

After a long bout of footfalls and shifting, the sounds of living, of someone at home, his company could have fallen asleep, or are watching from wherever they’ve held up. Time flows, empties, does what it does despite. How much has passed is a varied determination. Zack has no idea.

Sliding close, Cloud surprises him after the expanse of naught. Stoking the surprise, he confides, “I have something for you,” and leans all the closer.

Zack knows only his heat and breath, he’s so snuggled up, and then he catches a whiff, unmistakable, irreplaceable, of a non-mentholated cigarette, and he knows that as well.

“You deserve it,” Cloud tells him, settling the gift on his lips, gentle and precise.

Zack has nothing to say, not even a breathy _thank you_. He’s aghast. He thinks he nods, maybe. He knows he allows him to light it and retreat, and then he smokes, inhales, breathes. The darkness takes a lot of joy out of it, unfortunately. What a buzzkill. Half of the fun and the pleasure is watching the smoke exit and drift. He savors it nonetheless, and, as a bonus, it causes little irritation. He coughs once or twice. 

The night improves.

He puffs and puffs until it goes to shit.

_The setting is the same, the scene is not._

_Here’s the thick glass, the giant expanse, smooth and mocking, lit brightly from the other side. Here’s the gurney centered in the room, ready, but those white workers from earlier have been replaced with something different. Now they are soldiers, guards, and they circle the stretcher._

_Guards, like the type he would walk by everyday on the job and never really see. They block the stretcher from full view. What he can see is the suggestion of movement, a struggle, a flurry of gestures and limbs visible through the gaps in their arms, and then Cloud’s screaming._

_Simply screaming._

_Restraints click and bang and pull._

_Zack is helpless, caught behind tempered glass._

_The encircling guards step outward and shift, giving a wider sliver of a view. He can now see hair, hands, shoulders, half pictures. He can see teeth and lips spread, protesting. Fingers clawed, gripping. He knows both of these people, and he knows this potential image._

_...your boyfriend can get fucked all day..._  
_...all day long, Zack.... by me, the guards outside..._

_His fists thud, ache, stream and gush, red, red, red._

_His throat burns, strangled noiseless, white, white, white._

He is so suddenly awoken.

Cloud’s voice comes from above, his hands shaking, rattling; fingers digging.

“Hey, hey. _Zack_.”

“I’m awake, I’m awake…” he mumbles, reassuring.

Cloud lets off.

Zack’s breath is lost, his skin wet and chilled, too tight.

For starters, he fell asleep without his accord. Again.

Sure, he’s passed out, been knocked out, and what have you, but to just _fall asleep_? That’s a little embarrassing. And smoking in bed is one of the ultimate sins too. Don’t leave him home alone. He’s bound to burn the house down, kick the dog, and forget your birthday.

As the main course, he’s not so sure he’ll be able to sleep. Don’t count this night, don’t even look at tomorrow, that’s a _from here on out_. He’s still suffering the fallout from he-who-shall-not-be-named. He’s going to live through it and stumble inside darkness and the haze of sleep deprivation for years to come, thanks to surviving. That is, until he’s struck by a car, or goes mad and bad. Until he runs into Shinra.

They have one bed and two cots to their room. Zack, being the highest ranking, the most handsome, and the most withered, injured, fucked up, of course, takes the bed.

Reno can be heard breathing lightly and evenly from the farthest of the cots. He might be listening, controlling his breathing, or he could be genuinely out and oblivious to any progression. Everything’s a guess, either way. Could be this, could be that.

Zack has so little absolution after all.

The night is young, and Cloud takes pity on him.

Having left his cot to wake him, he has remained close by. Close, but not too close. He is careful not to be intrusive or hinder Zack in any form, cautious of his injuries, his affliction, his state. He might have apologized about the shaking too.

His own tiredness is evident, and his warmth. He’s leaned over the bed, knees to rug/carpet, elbows to mattress. And like a boy praying, he starts to talk.

It’s not a route Zack would have chosen for him, given present company. He doesn’t seem like the type, but then again, any concept he’s had in the past is proving less and less accurate. All the time gone between them, all the history missed, it’s more important now than ever to get everything on the record (or off). Who knows what the morning ever brings.

Zack’s sweat dries, his breathing settles. He listens.

He still doesn’t come to any thought all at once. He’s not a speaker, that’s for sure. He doesn’t drop a paragraph, or unravel a whole knot. He comes to his stories, his themes, over a period of time, bit by bit. Here’s a sentence, a word, a cliff-note. He adds and then quiets.

Put together, the puzzle would sound something like:

_If I were a colour, I’d be yellow. Yellow is the only colour that reacts badly when black is introduced. All the evil that’s come my way, all the darkness and plight, the bruises and holes and lonely nights, it has turned me a sickly green._

_Shinra was just a way to get out, a passage, a bridge to be crossed. It looked good on paper, it sounded great in my head, and they paid, so why not? It beat the hell out of being an orphan and sleeping on the streets. It wouldn’t be the last time I’d have to beg though._

_I can remember a man burning himself alive in my village when I was young. He went to the center of the town and lit himself up with gasoline he syphoned from cars and merchants that had passed through on their travels. It happened so rarely he must have been sitting on that store of gasoline for some time before he finally had his chance to use it._

_That man was my father. He took the town and my mother with him._

It does the trick.

“Your father killed your mother?”

To a point.

Cloud does not quickly answer.

“He did.”

Thinking on the act of vengeance, the mission of exacting wrongs with rights, and sewing together the near fatal tear from an old time, Zack remembers a promise he made to a certain someone what could have been decades ago, and then he remembers his own parents.

“Can you do something for me?”

Cloud’s response is swift.


	24. Chapter 24

_Status: Unknown - Location: Unknown_

“Name it,” Cloud says.

“I need… I really… You remember…”

Reno shifts and rolls in his cot.

Zack exhales a held breath and rethinks. “It might be too late,” he says, starting over. He pauses to swallow, throat so very raw. “But… my parents.”

“I remember,” Cloud answers.

Zack’s innards twist unkindly at that.

“Yeah,” he breathes, taking another moment. “They need to… uh. Need to know that—”

“You’re dead?”

Cloud hisses an annoyed huff next to him.

Reno’s disembodied voice has joined in. 

“That about sums it up,” Zack replies, unamused.

He had been awake after all.

“Hey, mom... I’m _dead_ ,” he grumbles, again shifting.

“If they’re alive at all… they can’t be put in danger. And they can’t see me like this.”

“Like some kind of reject holy man? A half-finished autopsy? The villain of a B horror movie?”

“Reno,” Cloud warns, tone level but drawing thin. It's become his favourite insult.

“ _What_? Am I wrong?”

“You’re... difficult,” Cloud sighs.

“So... we’re going _where_ then?” Reno sounds bored already.

“Gongaga,” Zack answers.

“Oh, good. That’s not across the ocean or anything. That’s not, you know, on an entirely different continent. That’s not a week’s worth of travel, yo.”

“You don’t have—” Cloud tries, but he doesn't get far.

“You’re stuck with me. Remember that? That was this afternoon.”

The tension would have leveled at about there, but Zack gets a wild hair. He hears him, Reno’s insinuation, his nudge. They have more recent history than him and Cloud, and he’s getting sick of it and his sour attitude. He’s getting sick of the ideas of what his ideas could be. Does he want Cloud? Has he had Cloud? Is he going to slit his throat while he sleeps? Will he be so kind? He could at any moment, any blind ol’ second. He has the advantage.

“You sound left out.”

The cot creaks and protests. Reno must be sitting up, taking the bait.

“You’re just lucky he’s not a fucking zombie anymore, man.”

“You make a lot of empty threats, you know,” Zack deflects.

“I try not to jump into more than I can handle.”

“Cowardice in a bodyguard…”

“Sure as shit did a better job than you.”

“How’s that?”

“ _Guys_ ,” Cloud interjects, trying to stamp out the fire.

Reno stalls, but recovers to say, “I wasn’t out of the picture when he needed me most.”

“What would your brother say—” 

“ _Reno_.”

Don’t instigate the instigator.

The knife will never be a surprise. It clicks as it opens, _snick_. There’s the preceding fall of a foot, the creak of the cot. There’s the rush of air, a draft, a lunge outward. He illustrates every movement beforehand, painting a vivid image for Zack to navigate and overcome. He expects to feel the warm metal along his throat before long, but.

Nothing.

“You’re fucking serious…” Reno exclaims.

Cloud breathes a ragged breath.

The realization hits Zack about there, lining up.

“Let go, you ass,” Reno chastises.

Cloud caught the knife.

“Oh, fuck,” he hisses, pained.

“I’ll get some gauze and alcohol.”

Reno disembarks, his bite gone. He won't soon be pulling his knife while Cloud's around.

It’s little consolation.

Zack has scarcely felt more useless. He might have been testing himself just as much as Reno, wanting to see if he could handle his own anymore, needing to be positive, but he wasn’t expecting anything more than a nick and a one-sided stare down; a little bit of posturing and information. Something like any time before, but not. Because he’s almost emotionally stable now, and still rocking at securing that faith.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he mutters.

He wants to reach out, but it doesn’t feel appropriate, approved, or wanted. Internally, just under the surface, he’s already echoed through a split-second script of overwritten answers to the tune of: _Is it bad? Are you crazy!? Stop getting hurt! What the fuck, Cloud? He wouldn’t have done anything. Why, why, why? You ARE crazy! Let me see. Let me SEE._

“We’ll leave as soon as we’re able,” Cloud replies, ignoring Zack’s feeble comment.

“Is he gonna fight your battles for you from now on?”

Reno’s back so soon.

Cloud ignores this comment too, having nothing left of patience.

“We’ll have to... go by boat,” he starts, hissing at Reno’s attempts to aid him. “I don’t think they run any aircraft we could easily board from here. They’re too slow and choppy and small. Wouldn’t be a lot of movement on a big boat. More time to rest. We could slip in unnoticed. Hide out.”

Reno finally takes the hint, resigning the conversation to its roots.

“To Costa del Sol and hoof it from there,” he says.

“Can pick up more supplies beforehand.”

“From which port? Midgar?” wonders Zack. “We can’t get too close to Junon.”

The sudden silence doesn’t comfort him any.

He can hear the gauze spooling, wrapping, tensing.

“Hate to break it to you…” Reno trails off.

Zack straightens up, somewhat surprised.

“There’s hardly been anyone here,” Cloud explains. “Few soldiers, no civilians. I guess everyone’s moved out... And—not so tight—Reno knows the owners.” 

“Owners? Where are we exactly?” Zack presses, finally needing to know.

“Junon underground. A club,” Reno answers.

“A club. In a Shinra base...”

“Hey, it beats the shit out of freezing to death in the desert.”

“Guessing this was your idea...”

“ _Hey_. You were dead, asshole. He was freaking out and yelling at me.”

“I wasn’t freaking out,” Cloud denies.

“It’s almost too perfect anyway. We’re right under their noses, hiding in plain sight. If you had graced us with your presence the entire time you would know we’ve been here happily and quietly, _until now_ , for several days. And, if you didn’t want to cry to your parents and spoil the party we could have probably stayed here several days more, yo.”

“Sorry to rain on your parade,” Zack mutters, altogether too tired for this.

“Yeah. Never got one of those, Legend,” Reno sniffs.

“You done?” Cloud cuts in. “We’re going to have to work together. You’re going to need to find common ground, or some kind of uneasy friendship. I’m not going to watch all our asses and pull you apart every five seconds. Do I sound like your mothers?”

“Kinda. You’re prettier than my ma though,” remarks Reno.

“Shut up,” Cloud growls under his breath, bristling.

Zack restrains comment, saving everyone the headache.

“We’re scouting the docks in the morning. _Sleep_ ,” Cloud orders and kills the conversation.

He returns to his cot.

Reno moves back to his.

Zack does little of that demand.

 

 

Morning comes, seeing Zack actively resist the potential sleep to stave off the probable nightmares. He waited through the night, frozen in the remaining hours of darkness not his own. They’ll hardly need him at this point anyway. He’s not an asset. He’s a burden benched. 

Dawn slides warmly over the horizon, heating up the air, ready to lift up the sleeping. It’s not a quick thing and it’s not slow either. The progression is steady, reliable, and then it's time to do the dance all over again.

Now the gulls are calling, any guards left over are switching their shifts, shops that haven’t closed due to lack of business are reopening, and boat horns bleat more frequently.

He always liked coming to Junon back in his own infantry days. Walking the streets always gave him some kind of... full feeling. Belonging, opportunity, all that good stuff. He had been looking forward to fitting in, finding his set, showing his stuff. He was a daisy then. Green as clover. On this day, crown broken, he can’t wait to leave. He can’t wait to bury it all.

Reno and Cloud leave for hours. They’re scanning and planning, working out the kinks for their long departure. They confer and suggest and leave Zack by the wayside to scrape up the pieces. He doesn’t ask many questions and he doesn’t spark conversation. He’s too occupied healing and sabotaging drifting off with vicious thoughts and worries.

 _How are they getting gil? Why are they gone so long? Where are they going? Who's seeing them? Who is Reno talking to? Who is looking the other way? What are they talking about? Has Cloud told him things? Things he hasn’t told him? What has Reno said? What has he done? Will his parents be alive? Have they known? What were they told? What else might Sephiroth have done? Has Reno told Cloud about him and Sephiroth? Has he told Cloud it’s all his fault?_ Continued on back.

He’s a wraith, a ghost from the grey, haunting Cloud and his own memory, and soon his own family. He’s got to pull back, put that shivering focus into healing, walking, avoiding precious sleep, _and_ not punching out Reno.

The latter hasn’t been too difficult as far as this morning and afternoon goes. Reno's gone for most of them. He would have given him too many opportunities otherwise. The guy’s a regular chatterbox, and doesn’t give two shits about who’s listening. It’s threatening to teach Zack the art of modesty, self control, and brevity.

You can’t go on lengthy tangents if you want to hear where everyone’s gone. You can’t go on a punching spree if you want inner peace. You can’t be cocky if you’re a cockup. It’s no less painful than a lunge from Masamune. And he should know.

By the end of the day, and their scouting, he’s able to cross from the bed to the bathroom threshold without Cloud’s assistance. As a bonus too, he hasn’t socked anyone. The ridiculous victory fires him up some. He’s healing quickly. With every hour he’s more alive, more aware, more capable. His chest doesn’t pull and howl every time he takes a breath. His side doesn’t dig and ache after a good run of movement.

While he might be overcoming his damaged body and sleep, he’s still hardly eaten. He has no appetite. He’s thin vapor. He’s hollow. His body is remembering support and obedience, his moods easy and steadying, but he’s not all there. It’s as if he’s in an ill-fitting suit, but the suit is his skin. The mako had him borderline mental, emotionally hysteric, and it’s left its mark. He’s bent and crooked. The exhaustion and malnutrition will only compound it.

Every night after receiving his injury Cloud redressed his wounds. Tonight is no different. It’s the only time they can spend together as a standard unit. Reno is a constant. A true bodyguard. These few desperate seconds are their best bet to let out what might be on their minds, unfiltered.

In front of him, kneeling, Cloud works at cleaning his wounds. His breath has been measured, restrained, and he’s said little. He’s exhausted, spent from a long damn day of doing whatever it is he and Reno did. Making money, stealing money, stealing supplies, finding a boat to Costa, whatever. These few minutes sitting in the bathroom, door pulled, genuinely alone, right here, they’re just for them, and his counterpart hasn’t said a thing.

“How’s your hand?” Zack asks.

“Sore. How’s your chest?”

“Doesn’t feel like I’m being stabbed all over again.”

“Yeah, good,” he quietly answers. And then: “Are you ready?”

“I guess. Are you done?”

“No, I mean… are you _ready_? To get on the road? To finish this?”

“Yeah...” Zack answers, taking his meaning.

Only, he’s not told him this part, because he hasn’t found the opportunity. Contacting his family wouldn’t put anything to an end for him. Simply because, it isn’t his only loose thread. It would be number one, top of the board, but out of how many could be, Zack doesn’t yet know. If he tugs a single thread intending to pull it free just more will spill out.

He wants Hojo and the Director, for sure.

He wants them dealt with. And he wants to do the dealing.

The way he sees it (if he sees anything): he’s still here, part of this damn place, _reality_ , because he’s not done. He takes the nightmares to be a very real indication of that. He’s not supposed to live happily with Cloud in the end. He’s got to sweep up his whole mess first, and then, depending on how everything settles, what could be... might just be.

Has he been a good enough boy? He as he paid in enough blood? Has he learned the lesson?

“Don’t take on too much. Don’t think you have to take care of me either. I mean, you have been taking care of me, and I greatly appreciate it, but... yeah. It’s not demanded. I’m not expecting it. You’re not… being held here. You can do what you want.”

Cloud is finishing his midsection, wrapping and winding the gauze, tighter and tighter.

“You’re going to break if you don’t rest,” Zack states.

“I’m already broken.”

“Bullshit. You’re the toughest person I know.”

Cloud sniffs (teary), or scoffs (angrily), he can’t quite be sure.

“I’m worried about you,” Zack offers.

“Don’t be.”

“Yeah, right. Especially with a statement like that.”

“Look… I don’t…” Cloud musters, failing. He expresses his level of displeasure by ripping the excess bandage free with his bare hands to tie him off. Done, he now stands upright, still facing Zack but still not coming level, eye-to-eye, thanks to their height disadvantage. His breathing is laboured, gusting out over to Zack’s bare collarbone. He’s all worked up.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He sounds stricken.

“I—”

Zack was going to commiserate. He was going to say something like _me too_ , but he can’t. He can’t lie. He can’t pad it, buffer it, dress it up. The truth is, Cloud’s exhausted because of a question and an objective constructed by _him_. He’s lost because of _him_. If he hadn’t gone off half-cocked and gotten involved in something before settling what had already backlogged, they wouldn’t be here. Cloud was just unlucky enough to get swept up with him. It was toll for being beautiful and blue and like nothing he’d ever seen before.

“Done in there? I gotta piss,” calls Reno from behind the closed door.

“Yeah,” Cloud calls back.

“No. No, we’re _not_ done,” Zack interjects and grabs Cloud’s arm, keeping him.

It’s out of his mouth before he can trap it. He jumps a gun he didn’t even know was drawn.

“What did he do to you?”

Cloud pulls at his hold.

Zack wants to rage, he wants to recoil, he wants to stomp his feet, mash his teeth, roar.

Cloud knows what he asked.

_What did Sephiroth do to you?_

“Let go,” he grits.

“Open the door,” Reno demands, trying the knob and finding it locked.

“ _Cloud_ ,” Zack stresses. “What did he do?”

Cloud rips free, moaning, “ _Nothing_.”

The bathroom door opens and he's gone.

Zack can sense, like you might a wall in the dark, that Reno still stands by the doorway. He’s more likely eyeing him over, disapproving, and nurturing more evil ideas against him.

“Don’t— “

There goes his bonus, his success, victory, effort, self control, and his waning charm.

His clenched fist reacts wonderfully with Reno’s face.

 

 

“He hasn't been sleeping,” Cloud explains.

“Don't cover for him. You haven't been sleeping either. I should know, I'm not. We're all sooo fucking cute with our little mental and emotional problems.”

All of this is said mumbled and muted. Reno's plugging a bloody nose, or nursing a fat lip, or placating a bruised jaw, loose teeth. Zack knows he knocked him good. That's all that counts.

“Should have died the first time,” Reno grumbles.

Zack’s been back to his bed, sitting as a statue. The other two have been somewhere across the room, far removed, but close enough to each other to sound like their voices are coming from the same body, layered over. He’s probably just helping him, soothing him, trying to keep the peace.

They need Reno. If he wanted to be honest. But, he really doesn’t.

With him blind and all, Cloud would benefit from an extra person to provide eyes and muscle. They’re vulnerable as a duo. Once their jaunt to the western continent is complete, and some of Zack’s knotted thread is cleared away, they can formally evict the jerk-off from their party and continue on much less encumbered in a myriad of ways. At least, that’s how he would have it. If he ever had his way. He can’t assume what Cloud might want. And what might happen.

“Maybe I am dead, and you're my bad dream,” Zack says at length.

“You hear this, Cloud? You hear this shit? Did he bother to tell you why we’re even here? I know I kept telling you, over and over: you should leave him, just leave him. Let’s go. Listen to him now. Look at him now. He’s blind. The doctors just gave him the face to match. Look at what fucking around with power gets you, asshole. Should I tell him your secret?”

“What?” Zack asks, half listening to his mumblings. 

“Maybe that’s our common ground,” Reno muses. “Our ammo against each other... Although, I think I’m in the better position.” He sniffs twice, clearing his nose. “I have sensitive information you probably don’t want him to know. The funny thing is though... _you_ told me, you fucking idiot. I’m not blind, I’m not the catalyst here. You better watch yourself... No pun intended.”

Zack rests, absorbing and weighing Reno’s words.

“The hell are you talking about?” Cloud mutters.

“Oh, this is too good,” Reno giggles.

“Tell him.”

The giggle fades.

“ _Tell him_ ,” Zack orders. “Go ahead. You blame everyone else for your pain. Keep going. Bring him down while you’re at it. That’ll surely win his heart. Stop pointing your fingers—what’s left of them anyway—at everyone but yourself, dude. You ever think you’re in this situation because of shit _you’re_ atoning for? Sure, I fucked up, but I’m here, aren’t I? This isn’t about absolution anymore, this is about redemption. I haven’t been dismissed, and you’re not picking up my slack, and neither is Cloud—something is still owed. I’m on it. I got this.”

“You owe _me_ ,” Reno growls. “You owe _him_.”

“And what is it _you_ want?” Zack sighs, sure he already knows the answer.

“You wanna know my brother’s last words? You don’t deserve it…”

Reno is now centered in the room, having stood, his force directed towards Zack.

“He said: _get Cloud_.”

They all wait there in the suffocating, stagnant mood.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, it’s Reno who speaks again.

“I _am_ atoning. Cloud’s stuck with me. But, you, man. I don’t trust you.”

“You don’t have to trust me. I just have to finish this.”

“Gonna pick up that sword again? At the cost of our lives?”

“Where _is_ my sword?” Zack suddenly barks.

“You wanna slash me now?” But Reno is ignored, his moment come and gone.

Zack stands.

Cloud stands with him.

He had the same probability of fencing that outburst as he did his last misstep with Cloud. Maybe he’s not doing as well emotionally as he thought. Maybe he’s just as fucked up as ever and that’s how it will be from now on. If he’s angry: he’s raging mad. If he’s sad: he’s dragging the depths. If he has a question: it’s been asked. What could be next?

“I’ve had it,” Cloud informs him, enjoying this subject much more than the last.

“Don’t give him a _weapon_ ,” Reno grumbles, returning to his post.

“Does he scare you that much?” Cloud fires back, annoyed.

“Ohh, I need to get laid...” Reno laments, skirting the comment to continue his own dialogue. “We could have a threesome, you know. With the lights out. After some kind of alcohol. And foreplay. And spanking. You do have a nice physique there, soldier boy.”

They don’t give him the satisfaction of a reply.

“No takers? Just me masturbating in the bathroom again?”

Zack’s waiting him out. He hasn’t moved since rising. 

Reno finally removes himself, grousing under his breath, dejected and sore. A door shuts and his voice cuts out right there. He’s either gone to check his damaged face again or is doing exactly what he suggested.

Good riddance.

Zack now raises his right arm, holding the open hand at chest height, palm up, as if in offering or a style of meditation. It’s Cloud who has the offering though. He eventually lowers the sword’s handle into the waiting palm. The blade drops as it’s released to him, striking the floor. It’s heavy in his hands. Heavy and warm and solid. He’s not sure he likes it. He’s not sure he’s ready for it.

“You try her out?” Zack asks.

“Uh, yeah. Kinda. It’s… awkward.”

“I bet. Heavier than you are.”

“Stronger than I look,” Cloud admits, a faint smile hidden inside the withered tone.

Zack strongly returns it. As strongly as he can.

“You should have her,” he says, staying aloof, level, able.

“I couldn’t…”

“You should. Have to ask her actual owner though. And do I look like I can handle a sword?”

Cloud quiets, choosing his next words wisely.

“How did you wield it in the first place?”

“That’s… hard to explain,” Zack offers. He reaches up to scratch the back of his head, muss his hair, a habit, a nervous tick, something old. He finds no hair to muss and nothing old or familiar there, just the ends of his head bandage, bristling new growth, and the beginning of his pain.

“I want to know… what happened,” Cloud confirms.

There’s a thud and a curse from Reno inside the sealed bathroom.

Cloud only pauses to rewet his lips.

“I want to know. Everything. If you can. Tell me. Please.”

It’s the _please_ that gets him. The punch, the minute emphasis. He knows the word draws on Cloud’s lips at the ends, making another sort of smile in itself, weak but wanting. He loves him for it, but he hates him for it too. He has no choice now. 

He retakes his seat on the bed’s sinking mattress, dropping right back and down, as he hadn’t stepped away. It’s as good a time (shrinking by the second) to start as any.

The sword’s handle he tilts towards Cloud, indicating he remove it.

He does, putting the weapon away.

“You know what they did to SOLDIERs, right?” Zack asks.

“Everyone heard things…”

“These scientists pumped every one of us full of mako. All the SOLDIERs anyway. Well, not _full_ , and not in the beginning. They thought it would be a good idea though. This stuff can power a light bulb, why can’t it power an army? They started slowly and increased the volume over time. And that was fine. That’s why we were powerful. Why Shinra wanted the unit at all. _Power_.”

“They put mako in you?”

“Good idea, right? While I was gone… they, uh, added more. A lot more. And took my eyes. Because, why not? Who ever uses those? All that mako… made me... see...” He trails off, failing to describe it without rambling, but it’s all he need say anyway. “I could see.”

“And you can’t now?”

“Not after...”

 _Sephiroth_.

“That’s insane. And… amazing,” Cloud admits.

The bathroom door swings open, bumps the wall, and Reno hoots, “Couldn’t agree more.”

Moment again destroyed, shot to pieces, scattered. Zack’s starting to think Reno really does just wait on the fringes, listening and counting his chances, carefully weighing the best opportunities to jump in and piss him off. Just for kicks. Just because he can.

“That was fast,” Zack remarks, not willing to take it lying down.

“Of course. Was thinking of you,” Reno counters.

Oh, this is going to be a long trip.

 

 

He’s being led by Cloud, hand in hand, for everyone and their dog to see, and that’s okay. Being lowly of soul is everything it’s cracked up to be. You just don’t care. Everything melts away (including wants, fear, anxiety) into the perfect form of what matters most. He has his lifeline. He has his reason. That heart right there beating in Cloud’s chest, it makes his own beat. Everything outside of that truth, beyond his obvious redemption, is trivial. Lead on.

“You okay?”

He could do without him constantly asking that though. He stopped answering hours before, back when he was still trying to sleep and make decisions, and not just hanging around, stumbling, tired and weak; a tortured soul, an idea.

“Zack?”

“Huh?”

“Are you—”

“ _Peachy_.”

Not that Cloud believes him. Not that he needs him to. He just needs to get to their destination, the docks and the boat, and then he can work on the full recovery, the coming back to life, the assessing of his next actions, and all that other fun stuff.

He’s done in Midgar. He’s done in Junon. He’s done with Sephiroth and Shinra. The travel will give him much needed respite, and they’ll be on the move the entire time and hard to track.

They’re in the middle of leaving behind their night club hideout, several days after his reboot. Reno’s to meet them at the harbor and the boat. Still the best candidate for errands, he’s buffering their supplies of drinking water and bullets, and any other essentials, for long sea travel.

Meanwhile, he and Cloud have been moving on the empty streets, crossing into alleys, and stepping quickly. Zack’s beat already, breathing twice as hard. He might be healed enough to stand and argue, but he’s not ready for a sprint, or anything longer than a distance of six or seven paces. The pain has already come back, and it’s edging into elevated territory.

He can hear the ocean out there, working away, over the rushing of the mounting pressure and the ache and the nausea and the screaming gulls. There’s a calmness and a sense of optimism out there, and a biting chill. It’s painting one solemn, untouchable landscape.

Oil and salt lace the air.

They’re getting close.

 

 

Reno’s late.

They’ve been at the docks twenty minutes now.

He’s run off. He’s alerting someone, turned his back, setting his vengeance.

“Let’s go,” Zack offers.

Cloud is hesitant.

He knows the drill, which boat to take, and has his own supplies. But, he’s got those nasty ties. He’s got something messy and confusing keeping him loyal. Whatever happened to them during their separate imprisonment is playing every part. He can’t leave him. He can’t turn his back. This is Cloud the bleeding-heart.

Has he always been this trusting and loyal? Could he just not see it before because of the lack of contrast in another player? Shouldn’t that only improve his love for him? Why is there this sudden, guilty pang of loss and indignity? Because he’s not special? He's not his only worry?

“He’s gonna show,” Cloud answers. “I’m stuck with him, remember?”


	25. Chapter 25

_Status: Ex-bodyguard - Location: Junon_

Reno was better off as a bad guy. He was better set not being some stand-up individual. He's way more in tune with being a snarky shit and too accustomed to being ruled by his desires and his vices, and not this fucking wash of guilt and shame and regret.

Fuck this awful shit for being at all. Fuck this nagging, chewing, and gnawing gut sensation. It feels like doom. It tastes like dread. Why does anyone want to be _good_ anyway? This is worse than death. This is so little sleep and so much stress settling squarely on his already bowed back. This is making sure Zack is where he should be and Cloud is alright, and stable (and his).

The new morning is the start of their next move slash disaster slash adventure. It’s been four days since Zack made his comeback. Reno doesn’t like the idea of leaving Cloud alone with the guy, the invalid, even if he is handicapped (and his significant other) and it’s only for a few minutes, but he’s got to do this. He’s got to support Cloud in supporting Zack. This is him on the straight and narrow. This is him showing his late brother, wherever he is in the afterlife, that he _can_ do this. He’s always had it in him to be strong and kind and fair.

Sorry for all the trouble, bro.

“You’re a familiar face.”

He was just on his way out and back to Cloud at the docks when it happens.

He's already late, but he did manage to collect everything and bullets, and offload the rest of his now useless Shinra employee debit card. The account hadn’t been frozen to his surprise and delight, but using it was sketchy. Either way, the shopkeepers showed no mind and the transactions processed. Everyone in the base has some sort of ties to the company. Everyone is either a willing employee or indentured.

“Yeah, no shit,” Reno greets, knowing that voice. He turns to face the newcomer.

He might have a knit cap and a hood covering most of his token red hair and his face, but this particular individual still noticed him. He would too, because they have history (unsteady history), before him and his brother were teamed up for the special executive treatment and people shuffling. Before he was a bodyguard, Reno was secret police. He rounded out his partner, Rude. And the guy has a fitting name too.

“Look like shit,” he tells him.

“Yeah, uh,” Reno mumbles. “Been through some stuff.”

“Thought you were at NCB2.”

“Look, I’m kinda… You gotta minute?” Reno sweeps him out the door with him, taking his arm by his pressed and perfect black jacket sleeve, leading him out to the side of the shop. 

“Something wrong?” Rude asks.

“Yes. And no. Uh. Shit. You’re not exactly the first person I wanted to see...”

The streets are empty, the alley next to the shop is empty. He shouldn’t be so hesitant. He thinks he shouldn’t, but he feels like he needs to run as far away from Rude as possible. His black, glaring sunglasses aren’t helping him see his eyes, and he’s hard enough to read as it is.

“Figures. Still owe me money,” Rude remarks.

“Right, right… 10k, or something? That wasn’t a good day for me…”

Rude crosses his arms.

Reno’s all the more nervous.

“Have you heard the buzz?” Rude asks.

Reno lifts his eyebrows.

“President’s dead, Director’s missing, Hojo’s missing, Sephiroth’s missing.”

“Of course, man. Shit’s gone crazy, yo.”

“Haven’t defected, have you?”

_Fuck._

This could be a problem. This could be _the_ problem. While Zack had his soiree with Sephiroth, this could be Reno’s version, his little showdown: him and his old partner clashing heads.

He remembers what they do (what HE did) to traitors, defectors, people with sensitive information other, more influential people wanted struck from the record. That was a speciality he enjoyed the knack for in the infancy of his Shinra career. Why he considers himself foul. Why he’s not a very nice person.

He can’t help but recall something Zack said, in so many words.

_Redemption (something to be paid) more than absolution (something dismissed)._

Reno’s not done paying. Not by a long shot.

“Pfft,” he scoffs. “You know me. Love my job, man. I’m actually busy right now. Still in this bodyguard gig, you know. Kinda a drag compared to yours, but I can’t complain. Pay’s good. Escorting executives to the western coast. Safety precautions and all that.”

“Is that so?”

Reno sidesteps, bounces on his heel, “Yeah.”

He’s trying to put freedom at his back, so all he need do is twist and run.

“Which executives?”

Reno swallows. He could run, he could punch him, he could even shoot him. He never liked the odds between them. It made them a good match for a time, but he really isn’t good with people. He talks, he whines, he drinks, he fucks, he _is_ difficult. The people in charge thought, for the longest time, that his brother was the problem. They didn’t like teaming the two up because of someone’s professional opinion deeming them “a conflict of interest” and “a distraction to each other”. He wasn’t distracted _by_ him in the end, he was distracted _from_ him.

Rude is strictly business, and not very good with people either. That should have given them an edge already, but Rude didn’t talk much, and he didn’t do much else but his job. Reno, more often than not, found him waiting in the same spot every morning for as long as he had the position (no matter how late or hungover he might have been). His old partner is stringent and rigid but an excellent operative. Reno might have to be careful and crafty.

“They'd rather I not say…”

“Where's Vegas?” asks Rude.

“At the docks,” Reno answers coolly.

Rude half-smiles—a smirk, better defined. “Stay sharp,” he says, uncrossing his arms and walking back into the shop.

Reno lets the breath go and unclenches his good fist.

He wasn’t so confident in his right hook anyway.

 

 

Cloud and Zack are waiting where they decided they should during his and Cloud’s scouting the day before. It’s somewhere close enough to the target sea freighter for quick access, but also far enough out of sight, behind crates and cargo, for the needed cover.

He jogged most of the way, but now he's at a minimal pace, catching his wind, wanting to slow so as not to stir more suspicion. Ever since leaving the shop (and Rude), he’s felt as if someone has been watching him, following him, and only getting the closer as he approaches.

Cloud looks tense when they spot each other from across the yard. The nearer Reno gets, the heavier the emotional mash-up pulls at his young face. His eyes are hollowed and ice blue, the colour of glacier, the surrounding skin is purple stained and taut. He’s annoyed and tired.

“We gotta go,” Reno informs him, stopping any comment before it can start. He grabs for Cloud’s arm to lead him to their boat, leaving Zack where he stands like a confused totem.

Cloud immediately protests, stiffening up on contact, and stands his ground.

Zack tenses and follows their voices.

Reno’s got Cloud with his right hand, the bumbling twin. It’s not as solid as his left used to be.

Cloud pulls free with a single jerk. “Get off me.” He’s doubly ruffled.

“We’re late,” Reno explains, urging him with a gesture.

“What took you so long?” Cloud asks.

“Less talking, more boat,” Reno chants, failing on every level. Pointing to Zack—who’s close now and right over Cloud’s shoulder—he adds, “Grab your luggage.”

 

 

They board the boat, the Schenectady. Cloud and Zack follow behind as he leads them on over the railed gangplank. With enough air of importance one can do almost anything. Although, to be honest, sailors are almost always looking to supplement their income and Reno was more than willing to pad pockets, and make bad promises with the shreds of his Shinra clout.

The ship is a big girl, only the second biggest in the port that day. She has a wide open deck filled with cargo, a wide open belly that must boast five or more levels, and an impressive bridge fitted with a crane. They’ll definitely go unnoticed for as long as they’re going to need to here.

He can’t help but want to get them below decks as soon as possible, even with the crew’s understanding. He works to usher them both out of sight of anyone on deck, and, the real worry, anyone that might have followed him. They’ll get down below and shoved under a rock, buried in the back, forgotten and safe, and then he can see about the tagalong. 

He leaves the two to situate in a dark corner in the cargo bay (four flights down, through a narrow hall, two lefts, one right) and returns to the upper decks alone. They won’t be leaving port for another ten minutes thanks to their stellar planning, so he has plenty of time.

But then, that means Rude has plenty of time too.

He pans the docks, with its crates and other cargo (nets and traps, machinery and barrels). He’s looking for contrast, a bald head and a white collar; a black jacket and matching black glasses.

The thing about Rude is… he has a good nose. Reno won’t ever forget that about him. Even when he might have doubted a target, Rude was always there to sniff out their lies. And he always made them pay up for it too. For the deception, the audacity, the arrogance. _Always_. Reno can’t help but be nervous with his performance.

He’s not seeing anything out there. There are plenty of docks at the Junon yard and plenty of boats to choose from too. The one thing to last and that's their trade. Shinra keeps the constant flow of resources, money, and weapons going. That can’t and won’t stop until every last shred of its empire smoulders out.

There goes a boat leaving now. Another is still loading up just next to theirs. A cutter, a small thing, bobs and waits for its crew to return. Two more vessels are anchored down the yard and out of clear sight.

Rude could very easily be busy on one of these, having chosen wrong. Or, he could be long gone, outta here, and the footsteps and eerie sensation he felt earlier were part of his slowly degrading psyche and he should be worried.

He steps back, eyeing the spread one last time. Deck hands move and work around him. He’s dressed grungy enough that he could pass as one of them. They’re almost ready to hit the open sea. They’re almost ready to head out for a week of travel. The men busily hoist up anchors, sort ropes, and double-check cargo. Meanwhile, Reno sees nothing out of the ordinary.

He finally turns to descend into the ship’s belly.

If he is here... Rude’s going to have an awakening.

That’s for sure.

 

 

Now that their somewhat impromptu trip is on its way, and everyone is sort of situated, Zack will soon be able to relieve himself of the burden of his parents not knowing (presumably) about his untimely and terribly regrettable “death”. As Reno sees it.

What a handful that is, in more ways than one. What a fucking lark it is too, mostly.

If Reno still had contact with his parents, he might understand better, but he doesn’t. As it is, he’s pretty sure their mother died in Wutai and their father chickened out thereafter. That’s all he needs to know, as far as he’s concerned. He had Vegas.

He HAD Vegas. But, now he has Cloud.

Was it more for Reno that Vegas told him to get Cloud? Or was it really for Cloud’s sake?

He’s starting to doubt. Just a little bit. Just a crumb.

“Looking good,” Cloud sighs, casual, remarking their overall progress.

Reno wonders if he knows what he’s said.

 _Looking_.

That just makes him crack a loathsome smile.

They _have_ been good though. They made it aboard with no problems. They’re starting to hit open water now. Nothing else has happened. Nothing’s changed or developed. No one has come out of the shadows. Him and Zack haven’t grown closer or more understanding of one another. He and Cloud haven’t had any sort of breakthrough, friendly or otherwise. He still hasn’t gotten laid. Nothing’s going on. 

He snorts a laugh.

“What?” Cloud asks, peevish tone indicating he might have a clue.

“Nothing, man. _Looking_ good,” he repeats.

This is going to be a long trip.

 

 

His buddy over there, Zack, has been quiet for some time now. He hasn’t said much even to his shining star, Cloud, and that gets him wondering. The guy’s probably dead tired as injured and sleep deprived as he is (as they all are). He’s a living body turned to auto pilot. He’s a liability, and probably wouldn’t notice a bomb going off next to him. Wouldn’t notice a thing.

It’s been a day only, edging into two, and Reno’s back on with the nasty thoughts. Like he’s said before: he’s not a good person. Old habits die hard and all that. They die kicking and screaming, and they’re still itching and squirming underneath his skin.

At least there hasn't been any sign of his old partner, or someone else. Reno’s been on edge, looking too soon at the shifting in the shadows, turning too quickly at a distant clank. Nothing has materialized to leap at him. He’s still hoping he imagined the sounds of footfalls. He was probably just taxed from the whole ordeal. He’s got to relax.

If he’s going to be stuck with this gloomy crew for another six or seven days, and trying to relax, he’s got to find a way to let the stress and boredom out soon. So far, of course, all he’s come up with is… wait for it, hold back your shouts of surprise... Cloud.

He’s been on and off his mind (thankfully). If he catches himself mulling then he’s less likely to go back for a while, as he’s even less likely to admit his obsession to himself. He’s still content with dodging it. He’s still in cool and aloof and no-strings-attached mode. It still looks like his duty to him. No one’s going to lie to Reno, dammit. Lying that he’s lying counts, right?

So, that’s his situation. Just how drained Zack the Destroyer is remains to be seen, but if he _is_ hibernating, then Reno’s going to keep himself entertained. He’ll find the right angle and the perfect scenario for his bit of fun and sanity. It never takes long. He’s a quick study. It still might be too much to ask to get Cloud away from Zack… but, it wouldn’t hurt to try.

“You’re rough, man,” he says.

“Huh?” Cloud’s resting atop a cargo box close by, knees pulled in.

“You’re tough as nails,” Reno elaborates.

Cloud only looks on, not sure of his meaning.

“You’ve surprised me,” he continues, ever conscious of the bear in the corner. “When we first met, you were someone else entirely. I thought you’d be easy, you know. You flinched and cried and cowered. I kinda liked that, but I haven’t seen you do that in a week. Maybe longer. I’m glad for it, yo. You’re… Well. I guess you’ve grown up.”

Cloud lowers his stare to his knees and mumbles his thanks.

“You’re still _the finest_ thing I’ve ever had to bodyguard, and only getting sexier.”

Cloud does not respond to that. He might have glanced to Zack under his lashes.

Reno smiles, humourless. “If you ever get lonely down here... you come find me.”

He leaves Cloud to watch his retreat.

And there, the seed is planted.

It’s not his best work.

He backtracks through the decks and hits the main deck, wind whipping misty, catching and curling his hair inside his hood. It’s the dead of night, the ship is cast in darkness, soaked in it, wearing it like a cloak. They’re at a smooth clip, a steady speed, headed ever west.

This is only his third time out on the open decks. He wanted for the fresh air. He can’t hope to see farther than the overhead lamps will allow, and they’re allowing a distance of feet at best. He can’t hear much either, that laden wind roaring loudly, probably preceding a storm.

Cloud coming up behind him is a surprise for a selection of reasons.

One: he wasn’t expecting him to follow.

Two: he wasn’t expecting to be startled so easily.

“I’m kidding myself if I ever think you’ll stop, right?” Cloud asks.

“That’s about it,” Reno answers.

“Why? What did I do?” He’s on the defensive, his shoulders high and square.

“You’re _you_ , man. That’s all.”

Cloud doesn’t look at all thrilled with the answer. “I didn’t ask… for any of this...”

Reno can hardly hear him. He has to step closer, so he does. They’re still standing by the doorway to the galley, the stairwell, the dry and warm interior decks. He turns his back to the wind, to the growing gusting breath, and blocks Cloud from the worst of it. He’s got him trapped now, before even realizing it himself, and what a thrill that is. He was just trying to keep him dry.

“No, but you got it. Can’t control what happens, Cloud. You can only control your response.”

He could press closer just a few feet, just those few inches, eliminate their distance and separation, and nudge him into that wall, that perfect platform. If he was so compelled, he could again feel his firm heat and his stalwart denial, loyalty, and morals, and their bending and breaking under the weight of his want. He could test that loyalty.

Or, he could be the better man, honor his words, and quit.

“You never quit,” ol’ familiar cuts in.

Reno has the time to make surprised and fleeting eye contact with Cloud, _hello beautiful_ , and then Rude’s strong arm is wrapping its sturdy self around his throat from behind. It locks, pulls back, and lifts him away. Reno’s arms thrash out for nothing in late answer. His knees catch, his spine stiffens, up come both arms and his hands, digging, ready to pull and tear to the last nail (all seven of them).

Rude’s grip suffocates. He’s not playing the advantage, he’s aiming to end it quick. The pressure doubles, Reno’s vision stirs and stutters. He’s going under, he’s going down, he’s...

Grateful Cloud isn’t a kitten anymore.

The blond launches himself at them both, one way or another. Reno’s having a hard time at making everything clear in the clash. He knows, and feels, that they’re knocked off balance by him and Rude stumbles, they stumble, the pressure continues to close on his throat, that promise coming, almost fulfilled.

He becomes aware of resistance then, a barrier behind them, more than likely the ship’s outer railing. He gathers all of himself to rear back into Rude, who grunts into his ear. He stumbles back again, with extra force, with added effort, using his whole body, the weight of the arm barring immense, the toil and urgency terrible.

In the confusion and the surge, they strike the metal bar and topple. The nauseating sensation of falling embraces Reno, but it cuts out just as suddenly, ending when a metaphorical sledgehammer crushes out the wind from deep inside his lungs.

“Thought you went over!” Cloud yells over the muffle.

Reno stumbles to his feet, rasping, coughing, swallowing every elusive breath. He all too soon has to bend over, hands bracing on his knees. He focuses on keeping his feet leveled. Cloud stands close by, face severe, the expression downright over-used.

“I’m guessing… _he_ did?” Reno gasps.

Cloud doesn’t need to answer.

Well, shit. That just solved the problem.

So much for old times and debts owed anyway. So much for old grudges, fear of reprimand, capture, and probable pain and humiliation. There’s nothing over that railing but free space and dead air. Far below, beyond sight, is the rushing of water, open ocean and death.

“Who was that?” Cloud asks.

“Just… a reminder,” Reno answers, throat tight, aching, throbbing. “And… the reason I was late.” He stands upright, taking a final gasp inward, clearing the fuzz and the haze. He doesn’t feel like he’s slipping into a depthless hole anymore. “Let’s make sure he didn’t… bring friends.”

Halfway back to Zack and his stupor, and the deeper, darker innards of the ship, Reno has to stop. The reality of what happened sinks in at last. His even breathing escalates, becoming difficult to catch or pace. He leans himself against a wall, a beam, anything for support.

He could be having a mild panic attack. 

“You okay?” Cloud asks, coming up alongside.

Rude was on board. He had followed him. He wasn’t imagining things. Most of all, he's gone now, and Reno survived the encounter. He’s finished with that part of his past. He's still alive. He slipped the noose. _Again_. He could be down in the drink with that rigid dick. But no, Cloud refused to let that happen. He's more grateful than any prior instance in clear recollection.

He owes Cloud more than his loyalty (and lust).

“You have no idea,” he answers.

As Cloud turns to strike on, to get back to his main priority, Reno snatches him, bringing him swinging around. Their bodies collide, their collective breaths waft, and then Reno’s holding his, and taking the plunge.

His mouth and his hands make messy contact. He’s risking cradling Cloud’s head for as long as he can to keep his face lined up properly. The kiss is meant to be temporary, fleeting, and ends up just so. It’s surprisingly chaste for his reputation.

He's thankful though, that's all. He’s overwhelmed by it, taken, turned, tormented. He's got to let it out. He's got to show him. He’s so much more than bullshit and booze and curse words and busted knuckles and caked on blood and fucking and the fading light at the end of the day.

They separate quickly.

Reno fully accepts the punch in the ribs that follows.

 

 

Zack is just as lively as when they left him.

They find no signs of any others, and firmly stay put to avoid being caught off guard.

The night returns to dull drudgery.

Rude might have very well come alone to settle the score. It wouldn’t surprise Reno any. They might have had a good working relationship, but Rude was not forgiving like his brother was with his antics and defects. Every offense felt like a strike against him, and when Reno got to the allotted amount, that was it. Rude was going to go off the deep end.

He never got to witness it, as he was reassigned, but then again, maybe he did.

“Who was that guy, Reno? You said he was why you were late. You knew him?” Cloud asks all this from his minor perch on the cargo box, looking down on him from on high.

“He was… uh. Well.” Reno has some hesitation giving him what he wants. “His name was Rude, for one. He actually… was my old partner, if you can believe it. That was forever and a day ago. Do you… You remember my, uh... _brother_ , right?”

Cloud nods.

“You probably… don’t remember the, uh… You were kind of out of it.”

“I know… he’s gone,” Cloud confirms.

“Yeah,” Reno mutters, side-eyeing Zack, “no thanks to…” He coughs and clears his throat, rubbing the sore and red flesh there. “Anyway. We weren’t always partners, me and my brother, but back in the day, I used to… um. Rude and I used to.”

“Having trouble?” Cloud prods.

“I don’t like talking about _this_ shit, okay. You might think I’m all impulse and stupid jokes and sex drive and anger and red hair and _me me me_ , or _whatever_ , but I’m more than that, yo. I’ve got feelings and wants and dreams and honor. At least I think so.”

Cloud scoffs at that, a harmless thing. “Continue,” he says.

“Damn. You want more? Alright,” Reno grumbles, flicking his loose hair over his shoulder. “We were... secret police. We were the shadows of Midgar... the vengeful ghosts of Shinra, and Rude and I were very good at what we did. I was reassigned with my brother because of an accident—not my fault, by the way—and the rest is history.”

“Partners? He was trying to kill you.”

“He would. I owed him money. And some other shit. Probably something about morals and _the job_ and doing things to the very end, and whatever. He never liked me, man. Bottom line. We’re better off not having him slinking around, that’s for sure.”

“I just hope he _was_ alone,” Cloud remarks.

“Yeah, no shit. Let’s just hope I pissed him off enough to make that incredibly ill informed decision. Am I right?” He directs the question at Zack out of curiosity’s sake (and humour’s), half expecting him to answer, half expecting him to spring up and clock him.

He doesn’t reply (to Reno’s minor disappointment). The legend living stays leaned against the rusted out panel, head back, neck straight. His head bandage has gone cockeyed and needs an adjustment. His demeanor is statuesque, solid. His hands are loose in his lap, his knees half bent, legs half spread. He is formidable even at rest; deadly, disturbed, damaged, dangerous.

If he ever has to see him without the eye covering, Reno won’t forgive him that either.

You can bet on it.

“He’s sleeping, I guess,” Cloud says. “He won’t respond. Glad he’s finally doing it now at least. Didn’t seem like he wanted to in Junon. Maybe he couldn’t. Not for three days straight, pretty sure. He doesn’t trust you. I know he trusts me though. I don’t know what’s going on…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Reno comforts, sighing.

He mounts the opposing cargo box he had been leaned against. It’s lower than Cloud’s, but closer to him than Zack is on the floor. It’s not an accommodating ship, but it is spacious. And dark. And quiet. And generally deserted. And potentially free of rats (human and rodent alike).

“Of course not. Wouldn’t want anything to spoil your chances,” Cloud grumbles.

Reno scoffs. “Fuck no. You’re difficult enough as it is. Think I have a scar on my lip from when you bit me… Remember? The good old days. Hasn’t felt the same since.”

“Good old days… I don’t have any _good old_ days.”

“What about with lover boy here?”

Cloud sits up and considers. “That doesn’t count. We met… not that long ago.”

“Really?”

Cloud shrugs and lies back.

Reno smiles, humour returned. “So…”

“No,” the answer comes.

“Come _ooon_ ,” Reno coaxes. “He’s not going to know, and plus, you’ll enjoy it. Trust me. We’ll have the privacy. Probably. Nothing is lost. No one is challenged. Everyone’s happy.”

“ _I’ll_ know, Reno. And while we’re on the subject of knowing… You said you were... there for me when I needed you most… I don’t remember a time when you were... You came onto me, you blocked me, you jerked me around because it was fun... and your _job_ , but... I don’t ever remember you _guarding_ me... Until now.”

“You remember _him_ guarding you?”

“I…”

“What _do_ you remember? You were in shock, Cloud. He... Seph, did a number on you…”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Cloud snaps, tone suddenly tempered. “Where were _you_ before that?”

_Oh, shit._

“Se—S— He found me… and...” Cloud loses it about there, unable to finish or confront it into sense. He descends into dreadful silence, eyes wet and wide and distant. He can’t even say his damn name. He’s a mess, been through the wars. And now he’s leaving.

Reno jumps up, but Cloud has already slipped from his perch and is out of his sight. He’s gone deeper into the bay, or back out to the dangerous wind and dim for a more fitting atmosphere. 

Out of habit (and maybe a little bit of apprehension), Reno looks over to where Zack is snug in the corner, caught between some kind of electrical unit and a hard place.

He hasn’t moved at all.

“Cloud!” Reno calls out, watching for any reaction from the SOLDIER.

So much for his advanced senses though. He remains undisturbed where he rests.

Reno’s got to smooth things over and apply that _good guy_ stuff a little harder.

He’s got to make sure no one else on this ship is gunning for them.

He’s got to get Cloud.


	26. Chapter 26

_Status: Unknown - Location: Unknown_

“ _Cloud!_ ”

It’s a shout, a cry, a worry and wonder. It’s not from his mouth. He doesn’t have a mouth. It doesn’t work in response to his desires and needs. He is voiceless. He was resting just a moment ago, minutes ago, promising himself he wouldn’t sleep or nod off, because he can’t stand the nightmares, but now he’s somewhere else entirely. He’s here, he’s there, he’s everywhere. He’s tortured in both realms and he can’t find peace. He’s not allowed.

“ _Cloud_.”

The voice grows distant but he knows now it’s Reno, the bodyguard.

It has been clear, this gloomy picture, this dire probability, but he hasn’t liked it so he always turned away. It’s confronting him now again, filling his vision, his phantom eyes, his whole broken skull. He’s being forced to deal with it, to answer it, to settle it now and swallow it down.

The cargo bay becomes clear around him, shimmering into view from out of the deceptive murky depths. It’s lit but not well. Things are always a guess at best. High stacked crates and boxes and other cargo rise around the stage. Their new mobile hideout is cramped and a maze, but it’s also holed away and it’s quiet. Or, it would have been. It should have been.

The voice that was is now a body. Reno has his back turned to him, his face out of view, but most notably, he has Cloud by the sides of his golden head, his palms flat over his ears. Their bodies are pressed close, only pressing closer. They could be primed for a kiss.

The initial burn of anger and jealousy, wonder and shame (and so much more) leaves Zack hollowed, emptied, and stunned. He has no choice but to look on and reel. He can’t move, he can’t blink, he can’t speak. He fell asleep. This is a dream. This is a nightmare. This has to be. He's seeing it.

Cloud jerks and turns his head, avoiding Reno’s oncoming mouth.

Zack’s guts jump in triumphant response. Cloud’s not wanting and he’s pulling away. But, if he’s not wanting and Reno’s persisting, that means… Zack’s going to kill him. He’s going to chop him down. He’s going to throttle and rip and tear. He’s going to lose what’s left of his mind.

Reno only follows Cloud’s turn, urging his head farther to the side, ignoring the renewed resistance. He nuzzles in nose first, lips and teeth reaching for that vulnerable neck. He’s gotten himself fully laid over Cloud as they stand there, hips and chest to hips and chest. His larger body, his taller stature, is making escape difficult and unlikely.

His arms come up to control Cloud’s lackluster retaliation. Reno forces his arms back down to Cloud’s sides, keeping him docile, keeping him penned. He thumbs the wound he finds there, the bandage covering Cloud’s palm and hand. It’s Reno’s mark, his flared ego, his bad temper. He digs at it as he catches Cloud’s fleshy nape, producing a sharp gasp from his victim. Showing no intent of slowing, Reno bites and sucks at the cords of Cloud’s throat. Exalted, he rolls his narrow hips home.

Cloud hisses and stirs, pained and trapped.

They’re half in dark, half in light, situated across the cargo room floor from Zack. The cargo bay holds everything from vehicles, to mining equipment, to bricks, boxes, and all else in between. He happens to be on the cold steel floor, leaned against an industrial freezer. They happen to be several feet away, pushed against a cluster of Shinra military crates, the logo dancing beside them adding another level of snide agony to an already flayed wound.

Cloud groans and leans from Reno’s ravenous attention, trying to step to the side, to slip out. He’s pulling away his neck, his upper body, lifting his caught arms, stressing the hold and his might. He won’t soon be able to stand for long with the way Reno has him headed, the bend he has going on, but Cloud hardly seems aware of it. He’s not himself.

Reno clings and contorts, now bringing Cloud’s arms to his front for better handling. Cloud tries again to step away in the process but he finds the crate, not freedom. He hits the crate’s side with the heel back of both boots and loses that listless fight with gravity, dropping down hard on the low top, hip first.

Reno uses the perpetuated stumble to push him fully over, sending Cloud onto his back and over the crate’s flat surface. Reno half straddles atop him, forcing Cloud’s nearly compliant arms above his blond head and tacking them to the sturdy crate by his thin, crossed wrists.

With Cloud now at his disposal, Reno leans down to bring their heads together, faces ready to meet, mouths ready to connect, but Zack’s view becomes obstructed by Reno’s shoulder from there. It doesn’t stop at that though, and it doesn’t get any easier to watch. With one hand to keep Cloud’s wrists, the other (good) hand Reno busily slips downwards between them. He works past waistband and wiggles into the front of loose sweatpants.

Cloud again gasps. He rises into Reno. He writhes.

Zack avoids swallowing his tongue. He can’t do anything beyond that. He can’t do anything beyond simmering in the anger and the pain and the wanting to end every part of Reno. He needs to wake up. He needs to stand up. He needs to yell and scream and revolt. Why isn’t Cloud fighting back? Why isn’t he thrashing and warring? Why won’t this _end?_

“Shh,” Reno whispers.

In that moment, on that mark, Zack’s hands clench, his fists form. It’s progress, it’s a sign.

“You’ll be fine, yo,” Reno continues, but he’s working that hand inside Cloud’s pants.

It’s not fine. Nothing’s okay. Zack has to see this. The angle and the lighting and his inability to divert, physically and mentally, won’t let him do anything else. He has to watch as Reno’s whole arm moves, now lost to the wrist, the hand hidden probably petting and rubbing at what it’s found. He has to watch Reno’s head lean down and up, and back down again, but he can’t see their meeting, their pressing, or Cloud’s reaction to it all. It becomes painfully clear when pained moans turn to heavy breathing, turn to heated moans.

Zack’s legs twitch and burn in response. His spine scorches, agonizes. He’s getting feeling back. It’s as sure as the cold sweat on his brow. He’s going to come crashing in like a meteor fall. His legs, arms, and throat are becoming capable, they obey, but his vision is fading, thinning, gone. He could see them then, as clear as day, but now that he’s up and moving forward, lumbering, stumbling, pins and needles, he can’t see a thing.

“Whoa!” Reno barks, noticing him.

“Get off him!” Zack grates, dust and fire.

He is purpose and clout and no more than entirely devoted to carrying out his wishes and promises against him. He grabs blindly for whoever is closest, receiving no one. He oversteps and almost loses balance, but he corrects, he swings out again.

“What the fuck!” Reno shouts.

“You’re dead!” Zack roars.

“I was—” Reno tries, but Zack finds him after lunging for his voice. And in finding him, he lifts him clean from his feet, hoisted by the collar, and rushes him back to slam him into what could be the group of Shinra ammo crates, or something else entirely.

“Let him go!” Cloud yells out of the dark.

Like a trained dog, like everything hopeless, Zack stops all at once. His blood cools, his breath halts, sweat rolls from his hairline. It’s painful, it’s hard, it’s strenuous. It’s like stopping mid-sneeze, or just before orgasm. He’s shaking, trembling, ready to explode, but he can’t defy Cloud, he won’t defy Cloud. It’s not even conscious anymore. It simply is.

“It's alright,” Cloud soothes, very close now.

Zack grits his teeth, shaving down about an inch, face a war mask. “He was _kissing_ and—”

“Whoa, _hey_ ,” Reno protests.

“He was _hugging_ me. You must have been dreaming… having a nightmare,” Cloud quickly explains. “I was upset. He was—”

“I saw…” Zack mumbles.

“You were _dreaming_ ,” Cloud assures him. “Everything’s fine.”

“I wasn’t. I wasn’t sleeping. I was awake.”

“You’ve been out for almost two days, Zack. Haven’t moved since we boarded.”

“Let me go! Shit!” Reno bellows into his face.

Zack reluctantly lowers him to his feet.

He knew he had been dreaming, but dreams are funny in that they make you doubt, especially in the waking. He was half in and half out, like he always is, no shocker there, but this time he went all the way, went for broke, and put together a scene that _was_ happening into something that _wasn’t_ , just a dread, a fear, a paranoia. An obvious mistake, a potentially deadly mistake. How is he supposed to function like this? No sleep, no waking. You’re good, you’re bad, you’re shit out of luck.

“You need to sit down,” Cloud suggests.

“You need to be _tied_ down,” overrides Reno, thinly, tightly, looking for his voice.

Cloud groans. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to,” Reno retorts, immediately coughing.

Zack exhales and rubs his shaking hands together. “Just… Don’t touch him.”

“Hey,” Reno snaps, “That’s really up to him, man.”

Uneasy silence follows.

The toil and tire could have eased to some degree by this point, but they’re still snapping at each other like siblings. Everyone’s still coming apart at the seams. Reno and Zack don’t trust each other, but they both want the same thing. On the other side, Cloud is damaged, dealing with it (barely), and forced in the middle (as usual). They’re some kind of messed up trio.

“You gonna be alright?” Reno asks of Cloud.

“Yeah,” comes Cloud’s quick answer.

“I’ll let you handle this then. Before I do,” Reno grumbles. He shoves by Zack. “I’ll come running if you shout… and I’ll have my claws out.”

Even upon his exit nothing is said for long after.

Zack backs up, guessing where he’s been left at in the cargo bay. He had lunged forward, straight out, so he only needs to retreat straight back and he should find his seat. He does need to sit. He does need to collect himself. Cloud might follow him, and he might not. All this blind business, all this guessing, it really takes it out of him. He’s more pessimistic than he’s ever been in his life. He’s worn down to marrow and bad thoughts.

“You can relax now,” Cloud says from his side. It’s gentle and even. “You don’t have to fight anymore. Just take it easy. I get it. I know it’s hard for you... but you’re still healing.”

“Yeah,” Zack breathes as he lowers himself to sit. He’s still in pain. “I just… thought I saw… what I saw… But I _can’t_ … see… I passed out again…”

Cloud puts an understanding hand on his shoulder. He’s not any closer than arm’s length. He’s keeping his distance. “You needed the sleep.”

The statement alone makes Zack apprehensive. It crawls up his back and makes him twitch.

He shakes his head.

Cloud becomes solid warmth next to him, settling in closer. The hand on his shoulder turns into an arm crossing over his neck like a yoke. The heat spreads from there, penetrating through his right side. Their heads align in profile. It’s as good of a hug as he’s going to get out of him for now. Cloud is willing, he’s committed, but he’s still holding back. There’s a misfire. Is it an issue of trust? It is respect? Fear?

“You’re not afraid of me, are you?” Zack asks.

“ _No_ ,” Cloud stresses, incredulous.

“What is it then?”

“What’s what?”

“What’s this?”

“I don’t…”

“You said you missed me, you _made out_ with me, but now you _tentatively_ touch me and hardly hug me? It’s like you’re afraid of me. Or maybe it’s the fallout from what you don’t want to tell me. Or _Reno_... I don’t know. And that’s cool. Kind of. But, not really. Something’s definitely up.”

“It’s not… anything _you’ve_ done... or Reno, really,” Cloud mutters.

“Just to be clear,” Zack adds, keeping the momentum, “I apologize about before, back in the bathroom. I’m here for you, man. But, I’m not… _all_ here. If you get me. I’m willing to help. I _want_ to help. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to though. Don’t feel pressured. I’m not pissed or anything. I’m just… wound up. And... crazy.”

“You’re not crazy,” Cloud assures him. “But thanks.”

“I love you, man,” Zack rambles, all honest stupidity and heady emotion.

Cloud drops his head onto Zack’s chest at that. Defeated, deflated, who knows. He’s hugging him more properly now at least, arms tightly encircling his torso. He’s squeezing and pushing Zack back, crawling closer still. He soon finds himself with a lap full of him, his own arms trapped inside the embrace. He’s okay with that. He couldn’t be more okay with that. It’s wonderful, warm and all he’s ever going to need or want. It’s probably the best he’s going to get. He could stay here, he could steady himself, he could remain and not fall and shift and shatter.

“I can’t tell you,” Cloud mumbles at length. He turns his head to clearly say, “You won’t want me anymore.”

“Bullshit,” Zack snaps back. “You’re gonna have to try pretty damn hard to do that.”

“He’s... gone. It’s over.”

Zack scowls, stirring a sore nerve. “It’s not over.”

They don't say anymore on the matter. And that’s fine too. Time does its thing, relative silence takes hold, Cloud falls asleep right there in his lap. Zack isn't sure how long they've sat folded up before then, and after, but sometime later he hears what he knows is Reno coming back.

The bodyguard doesn't say anything at the sight of them, he just sits by himself where he chooses, not too close and not too far away, and takes up the watch. His breathing and occasional shuffling carries on into the night and late morning, along with the steady and desperately close (and desperately comforting) breathing of Cloud.

Brief peace prevails.

Zack doesn’t sleep or move. He thinks. He reasons. He loses more of himself to himself.

 

 

Three uneventful and mostly restful days pass, more than half of their sea journey done and over. They’ve been eating and drinking and resting, getting themselves ready for what awaits on the western side of the world. This is homecoming for Zack, just another stage for them all.

The supplies Reno brought aboard will prove their worth. Keeping him around hasn’t been an entirely useless annoyance. They should have enough water leftover to get them safely and quickly through the port of Costa and to a neighboring town as soon as they hit land. 

While a large chunk of the trip has been spent resting, an even larger portion has been devoted to pestering the snot out of each other, awkward bouts of conversation, and keeping himself and Reno from having it out. The tension has been at a simmer. It’s on the backburner, but it’s not forgotten. They’ve been sure to poke and jab, huff and holler, but they haven’t squared off. They’re playing nice so as not to aggravate Cloud too much. That’s his idea anyway.

“And then his head exploded,” Reno finishes, ending a tale.

“Fuck off,” Cloud rebukes, denying the authenticity.

Zack had been sure to zone out while Reno carried on, but these two have friendly enough conversations between them. And that’s sufferable. It hasn’t improved Cloud’s vulgar language any, that’s for sure. For what Zack knows as such a slight and soft thing, Cloud’s got a mouth on him. His mother might have slapped Zack right across the face (blind or not) for letting that happen.

“Hey, Legend,” Reno barks in his direction. “Why don’t you share some war stories?”

Zack regards him with a “look”, probably amusing or annoying Reno some in return. He embellishes the action with a casual drink from his bottle of water. It should have been a puff of smoke from a cigarette, but he’s still out of those, and still feeling lopsided from the absence.

This guy doesn’t know what’s good for him. Or he does, and he just doesn’t care anymore. Or he never did and _his_ bodyguard, his brother, the one keeping him from his bad choices in life, is now long dead. Reno’s too curious, abrasive, and devious. He enjoys the conflict and the torture. He is drawn to it. He’s Shinra’s red right hand. He’s not to be trusted.

They’re at rest in the cargo bay. Cloud is on his left, close enough for Zack to lean and touch if he wanted. He can hear Reno far back, ten or fifteen feet, either guarded by the possible obstacles in the bay, like boxes and crates and equipment, or betting on his reaction time to a blind guy being adequate protection. He’s not close enough for immediate retaliation either way unless Zack can distract him, or unless Reno uses his gun. While a snake in the grass, he’s convinced Reno wouldn’t be so brazen as to shoot him down while unarmed.

He doesn’t reply to him off the bat. He almost gets to allow himself the chance to think and decide on what he is going to tell him first, but then his disorder kicks in. He’s saying the first thing that comes to mind. It could have been disappointment. It could have been fear and doubt. It could have been the class of the crass, top of the line killers and soldiers, every account true and fantastic, but it ends up being something dismal, something he had hoped was forgotten.

“I once…” he starts, losing himself to the memory.

He had this kitten run onto the battlefield.

Now, Zack’s not a slouch. He has his broadsword in his right hand and a half spent rifle in the other, ready to dispatch and decapitate, but he’s always been easily distracted.

The Wutai keep his armed crew are attacking is falling around him. Voices rise and drift. Soldiers (there’s and not) pass or run by, stumbling and injured, trying to escape, trying to make sense of it all. The strong wind of the fall season has helped the fire catch the entire upper floors of their castle on the hill. The courtyard surrounding the castle, where he’s found himself and this kitten, is starting to follow. Withered trees and dry flora crackle at his back and his sides. People scream and bellow, gunshots pop, disorder continues.

He drops the rifle and rushes ahead, scooping the little guy up in one pass. He tucks all four inches of the wet, black and white fluff close to his collarbone and chest. “This isn’t a good place to be right now,” he mumbles.

In good form, the kitten mews back.

“I know, I know...” Zack shushes.

He’s got his eyes up, his head on a swivel. The exhaust pouring down from the burning keep has made the courtyard a hard thing to navigate. Flames toss and glow out in the grey screen, muted but evident, points of contrast. He strikes forward, keeping clear of the fire. Passing from the end of the yard and under an archway, he enters a walled off lane. There is less commotion and fuel for the fire here. And, as an added bonus, he sees no immediate targets.

He lost his group and Sephiroth early on, but then, SOLDIERs don’t so much follow the normal rabble. They’re out leading it. In this particular situation, that freedom gets him in trouble.

The smoke clears ahead for just a moment. He slows to a halt. The clarity reveals three figures on the far end of his walled in lane. Looking behind, three more figures have already cut him off.

They are elite imperial guards. These are identifiable by their plated armour, polearms, and (the easiest part) the high feather crests on their helmets. They guard the castle and the inner sanctum. With the stronghold in ruins and the city falling, they’re out for blood.

One would be a challenge enough. He’s got six to worry about in close quarters.

Zack readjusts the kitten, looking on.

The elite advance from the front, polearms down, business end pointed forward, wanting for him, ready for him. The guards at the rear follow suit, brandishing their weapons. Six knife edges all on the warpath. Diminishing their distance, they close the pincer.

“This isn’t fair,” Zack remarks, keeping his sword up and his stance firm. “I’ve only got one arm.”

“Oh my, a SOLDIER?” one of the elite offers.

“What does he have?” asks another.

“A rodent with a rodent,” says a third.

“It’s _your_ damn cat,” Zack argues. “Not his fault this shit is going on in his home.”

“No, it’s _yours_ ,” the first replies.

“Sure,” Zack growls. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“And then?” Reno prods.

Zack had stopped the story there.

“What happened?” Cloud asks.

Zack shakes his head. The image is lost to fire smoke. “I… don’t remember. Hold on.” 

Reno laughs at this. “My story’s better.”

“You’re an asshole,” Cloud scolds, meaning every bit of it.

Zack is patient. He doesn’t care about the comment. He wants Reno to make enough of a dire case of himself so that Cloud can see it, and understand it, and decide on his own to cut him loose. With all of his and Reno’s posturing and grumbling and threatening, the suggestion wouldn’t sound very good coming from him. It would sound like jealousy, which it is, and that won’t help anyone. He’s probably already in the negative thanks to his reaction to what he _thought_ they were doing days before. The truth hasn’t made it any better.

Reno comforting Cloud because he was upset? Why was he upset? Why wasn’t Zack aware of any of it? Why in the fuck had he fallen asleep? Oh, yeah. Because he was and is exhausted. And broken. And faded. Because they’re not friends, they’re not family, and they’re not in a relationship. He’s an associate by occupation.

Zack sighs, really feeling it in his back, his shoulders, his side, and his chest.

“Your story wasn’t true,” Cloud tells Reno.

“Bullshit it wasn’t true.”

Cloud huffs out a breath.

“I wasn’t busy saving kittens,” Reno continues to defend.

“I didn’t save him,” Zack corrects. 

Reno lamely returns, “I wasn’t busy _trying_ to save kittens.”

“I didn’t save _me_ either,” Zack confesses, the memory reforming.

“My story’s way better...” 

“Would you _shut up_?” Cloud growls.

He won’t like that he defended him though. Soon he won’t like him at all.

“It was Sephiroth.”

The damp and cold cargo bay goes quiet as they listen.

“He always knew when I needed him,” he says slowly, wanting so very badly to be able to see Cloud’s face and gauge his most minute of reactions. “He always showed up in that key moment, you know. Loved the limelight. He was late this day though… He… had to drag me out of there. I was pretty beat up. Don’t remember a lot of that part too well. Not after. The elite weren’t forgiving. They didn’t like us being there, obviously. I happened to give them an opportunity to take that out on someone. The kitten didn’t stand a chance. I tried. I _tried_ … I didn’t want to... leave it there. Couldn’t stand the thought, but... I couldn’t fight Sephiroth off either. They cut that cat from my arms. And he didn’t let me go back.” 

“Well… shit,” Reno says.

Cloud has said nothing just yet, letting him finish.

“Sephiroth was jealous. He always wanted me for his own. At that time, I wanted to be him. But I started to see what he really was, and what I would be, and I hated it. He was egotistical and greedy and corrupt and… so many other wonderful things I refused to address early on because I was infatuated. He just got worse. Sometimes he didn’t show up at that key moment during a mission at all. He… fucked with me for a month. A _month_. He joked I was his kitten sometimes. He joked I _owed_ him. And… You know the rest. So… there. That’s a war story.”

Zack sits in the unsure aftermath, head hung, shoulders tight.

“You… defeated him. In the end. He paid for it,” Cloud assures him.

Zack shakes his head. “No, not really. I need to… I _really_ need a damn smoke.”

“That’s rich,” Reno drones. “How did you make it to SOLDIER if you couldn't save a kitten?”

“Trust me, that crossed my mind,” Zack answers, staying calm.

“Are you sure Cloud didn’t defeat Seph and you’re just taking the credit?”

“He _disintegrated_ in his face,” Cloud argues, not staying calm at all.

“So you’ve said,” Reno counters, seeming to enjoy the tangle, the excitement, “but, exactly how aware were you? He left you shell-shocked. You were a step away from _drooling vacant_.”

“I held his stab wounds. I watched them fight,” Cloud reasons.

“I never said they didn’t fight, but Sephiroth might not even _be_ dead. I have word that he’s just missing. At least Shinra thinks he is. And they should know. How can I trust your account, Cloud? He fucked with your head. He fucked with baldy’s head here too. And when he said _he fucked with me_ , he really meant _I slept with him_. Because they were an item. You’ve been Zack’s sidepiece the entire time. Sephiroth just caught on late. He _is_ the cause for all your pain. He _is_ just as greedy and egotistical as his fucked up idol. Like I’ve always said.”

“Fuck you,” Cloud responds, torn between viscous and gutted.

“Oh, boy,” Reno garishly laments, “wouldn’t want Sephiroth’s sloppy seconds...”

“Like hell you don’t,” Cloud fires back. “Haven’t stopped drooling over me since we met.”

“Let’s drop it. Watch what you say,” Zack suggests, wading in.

“ _Watch what you say_ , says the guy literally blinded by his own stupidity.”

“Reno, shut your fucking mouth,” Cloud demands, seething. 

A quick shuffle proceeds. Zack stands after hearing and sensing Cloud do the same. Reno hasn’t said another word, but he’s aggravated, breathing heavier and coming closer. Zack moves forward, towards him, towards what he knows is free space and an opportunity for fair play and a good fight, but Cloud and Reno meet first. Zack finds them milliseconds later. 

Cloud is doing his best to strike out at Reno, trying to punch him, elbow him, kick him. He’s pulling at his clothes, clawing, but Zack deflects and pushes him back with one sweeping motion. That allows him the freedom to bar Reno with his forearm and body. He sets the arm across Reno’s narrow chest, threateningly high on his collarbone, as it landed. It keeps him distanced and managed.

“What, _what_?” Reno growls at Cloud despite, pressing close to the side of Zack’s face, pushing at his guard. “Gonna faint on me? Gonna cry? Gonna just lie down and _take it_?”

That meat packing sound, that walloping thud, it’s the tune of the soundtrack that is Zack’s forehead meeting the side of Reno’s skull and temple. He doesn’t know this, but Zack drops his forearm and knocks his head forward to hit Reno as square as he could have ever hoped for. It’s perfection. He sends him crashing to the steel floor, stone cold. He won’t be getting up from that for a few hours tops, and he won’t be happy.

Despite the good aim, Zack’s head hurts in the aftermath. Oh, it’s _really_ hurting. He winces, inhales and doubles over. The intensity, the stabbing sting, causes a tremble he can’t control. He shudders and suffers, but that’s okay. In the messy, scary process, he’s noticing flashes, pin dots, white star bursts. They form before his phantom eyes. He swears he can see them, something like before, and it’s not a joke. It’s there, it was, it’s melting away. He might have awful hope again.

“Zack?”

“I’m fine. _Ouch_.”

“You shouldn’t have done that. He’s really gonna hate you now,” Cloud warns him.

“He deserved it, and he already does.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?” Zack asks, holding his own temples. The pain is subsiding, along with the remnants of what could have been dancing auras.

“He’s going to retaliate,” Cloud answers.

“Think I can’t handle him?”

“I think he’s an irritating asshole… and I want to hit him sometimes— _most_ of the times—but he might be alright. He’s just dangerous and confused and—”

“Alright?” Zack scoffs. “As in acceptable? Like, _a-okay_? As in this sandwich is _alright_?”

“Sandwich…” Cloud mumbles.

“I’m hungry,” Zack concedes, pressing his fingers harder to his temple.

“Well. He’s intimidated by you.”

“So he’s hugging you and starting fights?”

“Exactly.”

Zack scowls, making the headache no better. He stands upright to face his voice’s last location. “I don’t need to see your face to know you’re looking cornered and exhausted. That makes me want to head-butt him all over again. That makes me want to take on Sephiroth all over again. I wish I could. Seriously. Every fucking time you have to think about _him_ … and _it_... I want to kill that prick again and _again_.”

“You really didn’t save that kitten?” Cloud asks, avoiding the statement and the subject line.

“Nope.”

“Shit, Zack...”

“I can’t—”

“Your nose is bleeding.” 

Zack immediately sends two fingers to investigate. There he finds warm wetness. It’s a slow leak, nothing to be worried about. He wipes the bulk of it away with the back of his wrist, transferring that to the side of his shirt. He sniffs and swallows. All good. Carry on.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Cloud prods, becoming a hand on his biceps.

“I haven’t been okay since I met you, to be honest, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“You shouldn’t say that,” Cloud berates, tone gone dire.

“I regret nothing.”

“ _How_?”

Zack shrugs. “I’m here with you.”

“With Reno at our feet...” Cloud points out.

Zack grins despite himself, despite the setting, despite the wear. “With Reno’s stupid self laid out at our feet.”

“You don’t regret…”

“Come on,” Zack overrides, taking Cloud by the shoulders. “Let’s enjoy the silence while it lasts.”

They’ll both need the break.


	27. Chapter 27

_Status: Unknown - Location: Sea freighter, Schenectady_

How can he honestly regret nothing? _Nothing_?

Cloud has a laundry list. Regret, my old friend? Oh yes, let me count the ways.

He should have confronted his father sooner. He should _not_ have run away from his home, his responsibility as a son, and his ailing mother. He should have died in that fire. He should _not_ have joined Shinra. He should have stayed away from Zack. He should have died in that helicopter crash. He should have been stronger and resisted Sephiroth. He should have fought him off and held his own. He should never have stabbed Zack. _Twice_. He should never have failed. Zack should _not_ have been captured and tortured and cut up. He should _not_ have had to struggle to get here just to find _him_. He should _not_ have to struggle now. He should _not _have Reno’s loyalty, lust, and whatever else it is. Reno and Zack both should _not_ want him, and he should _not_ want Zack. He shouldn’t want to cling to him and never let go. He shouldn’t already know his smell and taste and feel, and crave for it second by strangling second.__

If he could, if he was any more (or less) of a person, he would tell Zack something close to: _I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. For everything. For the crash. For stabbing you. For getting you caught. For you losing your eyes. For Sephiroth. For you loving me. Sorry for all of it, every last thing. I can’t repent enough. You told me to stop being sorry, but I never will._

When he’s not busy feeling shitty, he’s busy suppressing what he can. He’s staying clear of entire scenes and locations. The terrible thing is that he’s fully aware he’s blocking them out. That’s the snag, isn’t it? You have to _know_ what to block out in order to block it out. They don’t just… go away. Worse still, he’s stuck with the two main players. A constant trigger.

That covers the big stuff. That about brings him to wrenching gut pain every day. How he functions at all is a show of the human body’s inherent resilience, not his own. His desire to make right by Zack is all that’s keeping him going and halfway held together (and maybe a little bit of his desire to slap Reno in the mouth). He had attached to saving Zack the first thing he came back from Sephiroth’s stupor, and now he’s attached to getting him to his parents.

He doesn’t have anything else. If he didn’t have that clear vision and purpose, he might have succumbed to Reno’s next pass that very first night, and he would have come out an entirely different creature; a little darker, a little dustier. But then, if Zack had died that night, Cloud would have too, and Reno wouldn’t have hoped to have stopped him from following.

As much as Cloud is stuck with Reno, Zack is stuck with Cloud.

Whether it have been exposure, dehydration, Zack’s giant war sword, Reno’s gun, or his butterfly knife (had he known about it at the time), Cloud would have fought to find a way to follow right behind him. It’s been weeks and he’s still feeling the sting, and Zack _survived_. It’s been weeks and his head and his eyeball _and_ his damn knee are still hurting, and Sephiroth is _gone_. He was kidding himself when he said _it’s over_ , and he knew it.

“So damn tired,” Zack groans.

“I know,” Cloud sighs.

One more night and they’ll be hours from port, and then they’re days from Gongaga, and Zack will get his remnant of peace. And then what? They open a coffee shop? The end game is more unclear than usual. The _current_ game is unclear too. It’s pretty damn foggy.

“I’m going to go find you a cigarette.”

“What? Why?” Zack asks, reaching for him.

“Because I want to smoke,” he answers.

Zack almost laughs at that. “A little stressed out?”

Cloud hasn’t thought about him. Not long. Not like he could but shouldn’t. He hasn’t hugged him again, touched him kindly, comforted him or leaned close for warmth. He hasn’t done a damn thing. He’s afraid to. He’s reluctant to. He’s not sure what image might rise to undo him.

“Yeah…”

“You know what’s good for that?”

“What?”

“Uh. ...Nevermind.” Even though he doesn’t need to Zack turns his head from view.

“You can’t do that.” Cloud gives him a light shove. “You can’t _not_ say things.”

“Hey, man, you’re one to talk...”

“Yeah, well… kind of don’t need to _not_ tell you that, do I?”

Zack withholds a reply, staying quiet for a regrettable length of time.

“Just tell me,” Cloud finally pushes.

“It’s inappropriate,” Zack argues.

“Do you think I give a shit about that?”

“ _Fucking_. Fucking’s good for that.”

“Oh.” Cloud takes a second. He’s not imagining Sephiroth or Zack, but fails at both, together and separately. There are myriads of possibilities and positions, and then there’s his truth, his stinging reality. The fear, the loathing, the resignation, the want, the need. “I’ll… have to keep that in mind,” he says, managing to keep his voice even.

“Just have to give you something better to remember,” Zack notes. “To counter the bad.”

“I wish you would.” He’s feeling reckless enough to try.

“Then let’s start.” And Zack takes Cloud’s hand into his own.

After all the shock and the drama, the blood and the blades and the bullets and the blame, that simple action breaks Cloud down faster than all of the above. It cleans the slate. Any shreds of Sephiroth and his shame at that moment splinter and dissolve. He feels vulnerable and loved and terrified to lose it. The tears that come do so quietly and they pass quickly, sniffed away.

Zack only squeezes his hand the tighter.

The minutes drag on and Cloud’s mind starts to work against him. He’s feeling raw. He needs to escape the monotony of his own thoughts and fears. He needs some of the crushing weight removed. He had learned not to trust anyone long ago. He went years and years with that knowledge, that necessity, and happily. Or so he thought.

Zack came along and challenged all of what he built. He sent him spinning. The guy gives him two glances and Cloud goes and tells him everything about his past and cries on his shoulder, every advance accepted, every advance recorded.

“I have to tell you something…” he opts. He chooses something that’s been bothering him. Information he needs shared or he can’t go on acting like an ally. He can feel Zack tense already. He flexes his fingers. “A few nights ago, I met Reno on the upper decks.”

Zack’s expression doesn’t dramatically change but it does get more severe somehow.

“I was trying to tell him off… He was being… himself. We were interrupted by Shinra, by some old partner of his. He tried to take Reno out but we tossed him overboard.”

“A few nights ago?”

“When you were sleeping.”

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“He was after Reno, I didn’t think it mattered.”

“Anything else you want to spring on me?”

Cloud rambles out what comes to mind in angry defiance as much as childish annoyance. Not so much at Zack, but at himself. “I can’t talk to anyone. Not easily. Not clearly. I’m scared. I’m tired. My head hurts. I can’t sleep even if I could or really wanted to. I can’t stop chewing on the inside of my cheek. Or my fingers. I think it’s nerves or something.”

“You’re talking to me. And what do you have to be scared about?”

“The future.”

“Pfft,” Zack sputters, “the _future_. Whenever I think too far into the future I’m always unpleasantly surprised to find the present screwed up more than when I’d left it. You’ve got to look at now. Don’t go investing in bullshit and dreams, man. Be happy _here_.”

“I wish I’d never joined Shinra.”

“You’d never have met me.”

“True,” Cloud agrees, solemn all the same.

 

 

Reno wakes up quickly and quietly from his knockout nap that same hour. Cloud had set him in a more respectable position for comfort and conscience’s sake. He’s like a puppy scolded for the first time. He doesn’t say a word to Cloud or instigate a rematch with Zack. He guards eye contact, collects a bottle of water, grabs one MRE, and then takes off on his own, leaving them to their own devices for an undetermined amount of time (and still holding hands).

Cloud’s not complaining, but he’s not thrilled about it either. If he doesn’t talk to him soon and ease him down to some degree, Reno’s going to respond in a way Cloud doesn’t want to have to make him regret. Because he can. And he will. He’s got nothing to lose, and yet everything.

It’s crossed his mind what Reno might have done had Zack not recovered. Would it just have been a reenactment of Sephiroth without the benefit _and_ mind fuck of being made to enjoy it? Would Reno have been so callous? Or would he have been what Cloud can still remember from NCB2? A little crude, a little forward, but understanding, ultimately good, and on his side. He said he’d make him enjoy it, but would he have really? Reno went bad in survival mode. Reno went bad when he lost his brother. But then, it could have happened well before.

The good news is that they now have more time and silence to themselves. Zack said they should enjoy it while it lasted, and they have, and they will continue to now that they have even more. It’s been such a refreshing and relaxing period that Cloud can’t clearly recall the last occurrence in passing. It must be months. It feels too good to last.

With nothing better to do but wait the last leg of the journey out, he and Zack remain together in the corner Zack has favoured as his own. For the first few minutes after Reno’s exodus they still don’t have interest in speaking or moving. That welcomed stretch of silence is just a tiny bit stifling now. Cloud would have done damage control, but Zack decides to break the ice.

“You really are lovely.”

“What?” Cloud scoffs.

“You heard me.”

“I _heard_ you, but...”

“From the first time I saw you, man. It's not just your looks either, don’t get me wrong. You’re… I can’t explain it. Think I did a double take. Like, the real deal. An actual double take. Thought that was just an exaggeration. Something people used to buffer a story, but I did it.”

“That’s…”

Zack grabs him by the shoulders, carefully, confidently, and turns Cloud’s upper body just enough so that he’s facing him. They’ve become alarmingly near, alarmingly intimate, and it’s only going to get worse by the looks of it. “Remember you asked for this, and you can stop it at any time,” he tells him. “I’m beat, and I’ve been too close to death too many times to continue fucking around.” And he draws Cloud in.

Cloud allows every moment of it. He cocks his head back and opens his mouth to him, and then he opens wider. Their tongues have met before but not with such dual devotion. Zack is overwhelming and starved as he slides along inside, releasing any control and reservation like someone lost, dying, or soon to be.

He moves his large, warm and demanding, hands from Cloud’s shoulders to the sides of Cloud’s head and neck. They hold him where Zack wants him, sturdy but flexible. He moves his body in, filling any space lingering between. He wants, he needs, he takes. Cloud accepts and returns. 

Their wet tongues explore and lick, one over the other. Cloud’s head has tilted far back now, jaw cracked. They’ve only paused to kiss or peck (a signature, a punctuation), and then they’re again engaged, the slide seductive, the friction not enough, the hunger mounting.

They part for a gasp at last, Zack using the brief pullback to lick at Cloud’s lower lip even as he breathes. He teases and lures Cloud’s tongue out to receive him after only moments away. He rubs his thumbs and fingers into his hair, massaging, caressing. As they couple, he quickly pulls that tongue into his mouth, sucking and lapping. Holding the back of Cloud’s head he cups and secures, deepening the motion, finding the best angle. The enthusiasm is returned; their teeth clack.

They’re still sitting side by side, as if riding transport. So prim and polite on the lower half while the top half is sucking face and frantically and futilely pulling at every inch of the other. They both intend to change that snag, but it’s Zack who gets there first, mowing Cloud over. That allows them friction. The collective gasp and groan is half comical.

Zack draws away to finally attend to catching his breath. He smiles, grins, _smirks_ down at Cloud caught and panting beneath. He’s satisfied, feline, hungry. It sends a hot thrill into Cloud’s molten guts. He squirms under his weight, chest rapidly falling and rising into the chest above.

He’s half dizzy from the heady duration. He’s never been kissed like that for as long as that before. The bathtub scene was closest by far, but he can feel _this_ sizzling through his blood, radiating from his ribs and his belly and his groin like little prior. It’s a filling, warming, swelling sensation. A lot like love, but then, it could just as easily be lust. Genuine lust and not forced.

He wants whatever Zack’s got for him. Every little bit. Every hot grind against his upper thigh, firm, and telling. He knows exactly what he’s getting into. The difference here is he’s intending to enjoy the act on his own terms, and with someone who won’t traumatize him. He is fully invested. He commits. He goes reaching for Zack, for the start of step two, for his cock.

And he easily finds it.

Zack hisses in a gasp and shudders. Cloud answers with a bite to Zack’s already swollen lower lip, reinitiating their kiss. He moans as Cloud tests him, feels him, overfull hand challenged. The weight and full shape of Zack’s anatomy is intoxicating, his reactions far better. Zack bucks as Cloud squeezes him, breaking their lips apart to hiss hot air down Cloud’s waiting gullet.

“Nngh, fuck, fuck…”

Cloud’s had plenty of practice on himself, if you think about it. He rolls his hand down the length, to the root, and back up, keeping his grip firm. This is very much the same idea. The heat in his blood, in his hand, the want in his heart and soul, it’s giving him the confidence and the force to move on. He rolls his thumb over the smooth and slick head of Zack’s cock, pressing and rubbing the very tip, worrying away. It’s simple but effective. Zack pants above him.

Cloud squirms and rises into Zack’s hips above, searching for his own torturous friction. He is soon accommodated. Zack’s hand finds him inside his own loose sweatpants, moving more deftly and surely than his own hand in turn—and too quickly. Cloud stutters a _stop, stop_ or it’s going to be…

Zack slows and heaves a groan into his ear. Their pace soon matches, complimentary. Up and down, again and again, the rough friction a delight. Zack’s hand is slick against him, pre-wet, probably with saliva. The thought isn’t helping any. He’s already holding on by a thread.

His hand reflexively clamps. Zack lets out an astounding mewl, a whimper, as if taken by surprise, and Cloud wets his fingers with his arresting, full-body release. Zack immediately follows, elated, devoted, overwhelmed, mouth yawning in a sharp gasp. He comes into Cloud’s fisted hand. They roll through the waves, foreheads pressing and sliding. They both tremble and quake in the aftermath, guzzling that sweet, moist air.

Zack moves just enough to kiss Cloud’s damp temple, an endearing, loving, and damnably novel action. “That was quick… Might regret that,” he whispers, slowly rising from atop him, bracing on one arm. Their primary hands are still respectively shoved in each other’s pants. “Could really go for that cigarette now…” 

“How about… a _towel_?” Cloud breathes, removing his hand carefully.

“Uh, right...” Zack notes, removing his too. “Just... use my shirt, I guess.”

Cloud makes a face, despite the knowledge Zack won’t see it. He’s going to be carrying around a semen soaked shirt with his things if that’s the case. He wouldn’t feel right leaving it around on the ship for someone to find. He’s not going to litter (especially something like _that_ ). Isn’t that just the perfect thing for someone like Reno to come across before it could be dealt with too? More pending drama. More jealousy and venom.

He accepts the unused shirt when Zack offers it. He’s letting him clean up while he expertly slips his jacket back on without disrupting the handful of come. What a gentleman.

The action of wiping the residue of Zack’s peak from off his fingers with his still-warm t-shirt (and his own lingering drip from his now softened friend) is oddly stabilizing, oddly comforting, and should be the only memory of its kind. This is how it should have started, and this is the person it should have been with. Instead, he has to deal with the green eyes. The grinning green eyes. He can’t look into Zack’s blue anymore. Nothing will wash the image clean.

“Thanks,” he mutters.

Somehow everything’s better, but it’s just the same.

 

 

The next morning, day seven, and the end to their sea voyage, doesn’t come soon enough.

Reno hasn’t come back. Whether he will, Cloud has a guess.

Zack’s grown quiet and distant again. He has been degrading over the four nights of sleep missed, but the overall improvements can’t be denied. Cloud can see he’s still struggling, still in pain, still unbalanced. He’s mirky and sluggish. At his request, Cloud has helped make sure he’s stayed conscious, even after the exertion. And that hasn’t been easy.

He’s awake, but he’s not all there. He will respond at length, sometimes not at all or out of order and in broken phrases. It’s a nasty reminder of his tumultuous mental state.

Cloud figures that’s better than him sleeping. He doesn’t know what kind of person he would be when he woke up the next time. He’s witnessed several nightmare occurrences now and they only seem to be getting more violent and more vivid. Zack could dream a dream that makes him choke Cloud out thinking he’s Reno, or worse, and that’s not a comforting thought.

He yawns, jaw clicking.

A whistle blows, a horn blares. Signals from the ship’s bridge.

_Land ho! ___

Zack lifts his head.

“We’re here,” Cloud tells him, expecting more of the same dragging on.

Zack levels his bandaged eyes right on him. 

“Hey,” Cloud responds in reflex.

“I can… _see_ your face,” Zack mumbles back, eyebrows knitting.

“Do you?” Here comes a familiar wave of crushing self awareness.

Cloud’s equal parts ecstatic, trepidatious and exhausted by the statement. If Zack _is_ seeing him, he’s not as damaged as he appears. He’s recovering his aforementioned _sight_ , his mako addition, and he’ll be a boon, an asset, and no kind of luggage. On the other side, if he is seeing him (and his tired and scared face), he’s also seeing everything that’s much more easily hidden by darkness and guesses and his thick voice.

Zack leans into him, only making the crawling, ugly sensation worse. They’ve been side by side, inseparable, as close as can be without stacking, but Cloud leans away on habit. He’s still near enough for Cloud to feel the moisture in his breath, smell the scent of his flesh. _Can_ he see him? Is he having a lucid nightmare? A daymare?

“You look tired,” Zack notes.

“Can’t you tell that from my voice?”

“I can see it in your eyes.”

Cloud’s face flushes. The insistence and naked honesty is making him uncomfortable. “We better get topside.” He looks away, breaking the unusual connection, the quivering wire between them. “Don’t want to catch the crowd...”

 

 

It doesn’t take long for Cloud to spot Reno.

He’s out on the open decks, far from the edge, standing with his hands in his pockets. He has his second-hand hood down around his neck and his head turned away, eyes looking out to the approaching coast. His hair is caught, flipping, swirling. His left foot is cocked out, his shoulders bent, overall demeanor taking on a slouch. It’s off putting. It’s alpha male. He’s nothing else but that violently red hair and long legs, and he has so much of both. While Vegas decided to keep his hair short, Reno lets his be long and wild, though tied back for function.

“Confirmation on Reno,” he informs Zack.

Zack nods at the warning. He’s been at his side, stuck like glue without Cloud’s need to monitor or request. It’s just as unnerving as it has been comforting. He’s going to have to accept the impression that Zack is as strong as Reno jokes he isn’t anymore, or marvel at his every move.

In the sunlight he looks even more frail and damaged though. Every diminished detail is now in high relief. It was hidden in the dark of the ship’s belly, but now he’s pale and thinner. He’s scarred and stretched, pulled tight. There are new lines in his forehead and around his mouth. His lips are cracked and chapped. Blood from his earlier nosebleed has remained the tiniest bit around his nostrils. The shell of his left ear is healed but nipped off at the top. His shorn down hair has grown in enough to bend under the fingertips, enough to outline every scar scouring his scalp, but it’s still a far cry from what Cloud can remember. It’s farther still from the Zack in the posters.

The kicker though, the real knife to his guts, has to be the bandage around his head and eyes, so like he himself sported some time ago. It’s mocking, it’s a laugh, it alludes to the darker reality… Zack really is blind. Or, he should be, traditionally.

Cloud has seen the damage, he knows nothing is there but scar tissue and the bottom of his stomach dropping out every time, but he wants to believe him. He should believe him. He swears Zack goes to lift his hand to shield his eyes from the sun as they walk forward to meet Reno. He goes to initiate the motion and then seems to think better of it, putting the arm back at his side. Maybe he felt the sun hot on his face. Maybe he remembered the action from habit. Maybe he really _can_ see how bright the beach is, and the glaring ocean in between.

Reno’s not too pristine himself. He went looking for trouble after he came to his senses. It shows in the blood dusted knuckles of his right hand, his split lip, and the way he turns, babying his left shoulder. He must have dashed out of there the day before and looked for any poor sap to let his anger out on. Or _saps_. Plural. Whether Reno won the fights doesn’t show. He’s here now, he came back to do his duty.

Zack stands at Cloud’s back. He’s close, he’s a constant, he’s a rock golem.

Reno doesn’t regard him a lick. “You’re stuck with me,” he reminds, shrugging just enough.

This is him swallowing his ego.

And that’s them to the western continent. 

 

 

The sea freighter is much too large to come into port on its own, the coast here riddled with shallow reefs. Reno leads them off the ship, much like before, but instead of a gangplank he takes them carefully over the roped side of the ship and onto a waiting motorboat tied below. 

They’re shuttled from there to the docks of Costa del Sol, packed alongside several other stowaways they had no idea about. There could be thirty of them all accounted for, the three of them included. Many of them are women and children. Many of them displaced from Midgar.

“Should get a room,” Reno tells Cloud over the whir of the motorboat returning to the Schenectady; the murmur of the stowaways dispersing. “I’ve got the gil.”

“Should keep moving,” Zack suggests.

“I need to eat,” Cloud answers them both.

In all honesty, he’s in pain. He can’t go on like he would. And he would, because he’s on Zack’s side, but he’s also going to follow Zack’s earlier advice and slow down. His stomach, his head, his eye, and his knee, they’ve all been giving him a varying degree of agony at varying times of the day, but always, constantly, and at every passing second. One way or another, since he’s been aware, he’s been on the verge of disaster, meltdown, complete loss, paralysis. Zack will soon see it all at the rate he’s going. He's guessed enough already. Reno’s been bad enough.

“Let’s get into town then,” Reno says. He doesn’t wait for a reply, he leads the way.

They let him walk ahead to stroll down the dock.

Zack has nothing to say just yet. His expression is loud enough.

“You need to eat too,” Cloud tells him, walking slowly, taking it easy. Zack matches his pace. “Gonna want to change those bandages sooner than later. Your side hasn’t been looking good. I’m sure you’ve noticed. Bear with me, okay?”

“I’ll _bear_ you all day, but... I don’t like the idea of staying too long.”

“We’ll be gone before anyone gets word out,” Cloud assures him.

 

 

Reno gets a room at the inn and they hunker down to refresh.

Cloud is relieved Zack says nothing more on the decision, not liking it any better himself. Zack doesn’t look too capable of long foot travel anyway. He doesn’t look capable of a lot of disputing too. If he doesn’t sleep soon, he and Reno might have to carry him again.

He sets to redoing his bandages before even taking care of his audibly protesting stomach.

Reno has never liked watching the process. He doesn’t like Cloud caring for Zack. He has removed himself at every opportunity, to his disadvantage (and he knows it). He has voiced before that he doesn’t want to see Zack without the head bandage. The void, the scars, the lack of a soul—all his words. How he can muster it, Reno told him, he will never know.

It’s not about mustering though, it’s about acceptance and love and a few other sappy sounding things. Cloud would rather he never see any of Zack’s wounds again, but he would rather he be of use to him more so. He’ll reset his bandages for as long as Zack needs him to; for as long as Zack keeps getting injured; for as long as they’re both around. And he’ll never complain a day.

Reno doesn’t seclude himself to the bathroom this time. Expressing his need for a stiff drink, he heads out the room’s front door as Cloud sits Zack down. Cloud doesn’t say a word about it. He doesn’t have the depth of patience to worry about him and the consequences of being found and questioned (or even killed... if they really are that serious).

Being gentle, he removes the jacket he and Reno sourced for Zack what feels like decades ago, and gets to unwrapping. Let the guilt pour on, wash over, saturate. It’s penance. Every layer removed is a twist to that metaphorical knife still deep in his guts until he gets to climax, and sweet numbness.

He won’t touch Zack openly and reverently, even after their last night on the Schenectady, like he wants, like he would at any ol’ time, like they both still need, because he can’t allow himself the full pleasure. He’s still being punished. Once he gets to naked flesh, the worst of the guilt is gone, and he can work freely.

He wipes down the two stab wounds with a wet rag, paying special attention to his side, the one that pulls and moves and irritates, and then applies alcohol to disinfect. After allowing them to air out, he starts the process of rewrapping Zack’s middle, his chest and shoulder, and lastly, his head, for good measure. The rolls of clean bandages are the bulk of Cloud’s carried supplies. He’ll be out in a handful of nights.

It’s midday, the sun high and bright. The heat is on. It was always cold in Midgar. He remembers this warmth. This is as much of a homecoming for Cloud as it is for Zack. He was born in Nibelheim, just a hop, skip, and a jump over a ridge of mountains and a glacial river to Gongaga, and where Zack grew up. Even in the winter months, the western continent, more tropical than not, boasts the most clement of weather. To their advantage or not.

He has Zack sit topless in only his fresh bandages while he digs into the second to last MRE, ignoring the half nudity to ease the now tantruming hunger pangs. They only have Zack’s jacket at present anyway. His shirt is still out of order.

They sit side by side, shoulder to shoulder, a quick staple, and share the package and its dubious contents. To his discontent, he makes sure Zack chews and swallows every piece of food he hands to him. A cracker, a bit of ham. He’s never felt older. He’s never felt weaker. But then, he’s also never felt more needed and wanted.

“Never thought I’d enjoy these,” Zack mumbles, coming alive. “Better when you can’t see them.”

“It’s the company,” Cloud says.

“Nah, gotta be the squishy citrus tasting stuff. That cheesy crap.”

The most he gets from Cloud is an amused snort. They sit together, as they’ve been lucky enough to keep finding themselves doing, and say nothing else important or relevant. Not a damn thing. The MRE depletes and Cloud moves them onto a bottle of water. They end up draining two. It’s a minor schedule they’ve been sticking to since Reno split two days ago. The light conversation and sparse interactions keep Zack anchored.

“Aftertaste is terrible,” he grumbles, returning the empty water bottle to Cloud. “Your mom ever make you anything homemade? Like, from scratch?”

“Uh. I… can’t…”

“Forget it, man.”

“No, it’s okay,” Cloud says, a little too adamantly.

Zack appears optimistic. He also appears to be regaining an aspect of himself after refueling, and looking right at him.

Cloud does remember one thing. “My mom did these… Rolls... I don’t know what they were called... Maybe it was a Nibel thing…”

“Wait. _Nibel_? As in… Mount Nibel? _Nibelheim_?”

“Yeah,” Cloud answers.

“Fucking… _shit_ ,” Zack swears.

“What? Is that a bad thing?”

“I can’t believe I forgot... I’m such an idiot. I, uh. Remember that though, the fire. We heard about it. My dad was pissed. My mom was upset. Had some distant family there. Cousins, or something… Geez. Must have been… thirteen. I can’t believe that, man.”

Cloud chooses to stay quiet, not wanting to spoil the recollection.

“That made you… what?” Zack asks.

“Twelve,” Cloud answers.

“How did you join Shinra after that?”

“Well, I didn’t. For the quick answer. Not yet. I had the form… It didn’t come in the mail for me, like I’d said. It was... my father’s. He always wanted to be…”

“Oh,” Zack says.

“My father… He was too much of a coward… too afraid of failure. He never got beyond applying. He had been accepted several times. He had been all ready to go, but he didn’t go. He gave the form to me. And then he… And I…”

“I liked Nibelheim,” Zack says, trying to take his mind off it or zoning out.

“You went there?” Cloud asks, letting the shame go, letting it settle back into his bowels.

Zack pauses, sucking his teeth. He almost looks embarrassed when he answers. “Yeah, well… When you grow up in a backwater town you have to use your imagination to entertain yourself… A few of us from Gongaga, we would… cause trouble in neighboring towns. We hit Rocket Town a few times... and Nibelheim. Never had enough balls to do Wutai though… It was too far away. Or so we said. Just afraid, really.”

“You _pranked_ my town?”

“Hey, hey—we were juveniles. Give me a break.”

“What did you do?”

“We… stole things, and relocated a few others. We _dyed_ your well water one year.”

“I don’t remember any of that...”

Zack shrugs. “Petty crime was not my bag.”

“Shinra wasn’t mine.”

“We can agree on that one.”

“You made it to SOLDIER though,” Cloud rebukes. “You got… a taste. _More_ than a taste. I didn’t even get beyond _grunt_.” He can’t include the captain’s title. He won’t include the captain’s title. “You at least got fame and glory… and a damn _poster_. I didn’t get anything.”

“I got a poster?”

Cloud is shocked. “You didn’t know about that?”

Zack shakes his head slowly, bandage swinging free in the back.

“I saw it when…” Cloud starts to bring the stinging memory back, but a commotion outside interrupts him. He pauses so they can listen. It sounded like gunfire. Now it’s shouting, more gunfire. It could be Reno raising a fit and getting a real response. They could be found out.

Zack’s desire to move on was right.


	28. Chapter 28

_Status: Ex-bodyguard - Location: Costa del Sol_

Reno crosses the street and enters the bar.

He’d gotten the room for a good price because of their timing. It’s slow season, it’s cheap prices and bored employees, but he still only has enough gil left over from that jerk he decked back on the boat—the very same guy he got the sloppy blowjob from the night he _got_ decked—to buy two shots. That’s not going to be enough. Not nearly.

He orders, slugs the still-settling shots down, and sits heavily on a stool.

The bar is shaped long and slender, just like the inn. There are four tables for seating, sixteen chairs or so, and a rather large counter with many ready stools. The place isn’t empty, but it might as well be. There are two patrons together at the bar with him. They’re far off to his right and out of immediate sight. There’s the bartender, but she doesn't count. A single at his rear is sitting by himself against the wall. One more just came in, but he’s headed to the back room behind the counter and must work here, so he doesn’t count either.

It’s too quiet.

He sits just like that for a while, desperate to lose track of time. He doesn’t smoke so he’s a drinker. It would have helped pass the time and his growling stomach, but unlike Zack, who has his occasional coughing fits and grouchiness, Reno gets shaky and nervous the longer he goes without a needed drink. It’s his vice. It’s something Rude and his brother gave him shit for back in the day, and the real reason behind his demotion. He’s never liked the smoke and the smell (another strike against Zack). He doesn’t like the lingering of it, the dry burn, even after it’s been put to bed. People are often surprised when they offer and he refuses. No, thank you very much, just forgetfulness and belligerence for me. He’ll save his lungs, but not his soul.

As it is, he’s got two choices: stay or go. He can't help his mind drifting into the more treacherous thoughts regardless. This isn’t his first rodeo, but he’s on the wrong side. He’s built for deception. He’s already been through dealing with Zack. Played out getting him while he sleeps (if he ever did that anymore), or blindsiding him in his waking stupors. A sudden knife to the ribs, a bullet to the head. It’s that simple really, and he could give him his eternal rest.

But then, Cloud would suspect him, and then hate him, and that’s never been a huge issue for him before. Complications complicating complications. He's not fit for this serious friend/relationship shit. He's defying his own nature, his flimsy beliefs, and his floppy balance. What balance does he have? He's down a job, three fingers and a twin brother. What did he ever have? He’s always been a pissed off recovering alcoholic with sex addict and gambling (relationships, money, life) tendencies. How much more unbalanced could he be? _Get Cloud_? He’s gotten. Job’s done. Feel resolved.

Reno sighs, shrugs low. He’s starting to feel a little warm, a little loose. He hasn’t eaten in hours, so that’s going to help the situation, but it’s still shit. He’s up the creek. He was aiming to forget the lot. Bring on the pain. The hangover. The stranger next to him in bed. He knows he’s pining for someone he has no chance with, and even if he did somehow _make_ that chance, he wouldn’t live it down. Cloud would eventually break, Zack would jump to defend him, and Reno would get his ass beat or hunted down.

Shit, he could cut his losses now and just walk away. Just… walk... away. He could leave them in that hotel room, let them at it, forget his dying brother’s convenient last words, and take a damn vacation from all this bullshit. He’s already crawled back once. He’s already at the beach.

“You look like you need another round.”

Reno turns just his head to face the speaker. This voice is almost familiar, but the immediate features are not. This must be the shrouded figure from the back, come up on his right. Most of his face and head are covered, and from what Reno understands, he’s older than what he usually looks for in a conversation.

The man’s hair is silver-white and long where he can see it inside that heavy hanging hood. He’s a rugged sort of handsome despite his partial expression. His eyes strike Reno. They’re shaded but piercing. He’s instantly intrigued, willing for the distraction, at odds with self preservation.

“Absolutely,” he answers.

The full shot glass appears and he downs it without a thought.

“Tough times,” the man observes, voice muffled and gravel.

“You have no idea,” Reno answers, wiping his mouth.

“I know tough times... I just lost my son.”

Reno is bored by this and silence drifts between. He’s starting to feel astoundingly warm.

“He’d be about your age…” the man offers.

“Listen, I don’t—”

“You wouldn’t happen to have three fingers missing from your left hand?”

Reno keeps the defective hand down at his side or hidden away in his pocket most times. He’s consciously putting the disadvantage out of view and out of mind. The best thing he can do with it anymore is make a mock gun without trying too hard. He has trouble gripping and holding, but overall, it could be worse. And it is. Only a select few are privy to that detail.

“What kind of pick up line is that?” he returns, playing dumb.

“Tell me everything.”

It registers as a threat.

“The _fuck_... are you _on_?” Reno fumbles, tongue gone unusually heavy.

“I have reason to believe you were involved in my son’s disappearance.”

“Really... _lost him_ didn’t you…”

“You’re dodging my questions.”

“I don’t know what—”

“Tell me all you know, or I watch you choke on your own vomit.”

It finally lines up.

“You... _poisoned_ me?” Reno exclaims, leaning back. His head is already floating free from the sudden movement, the sudden rush of blood. “What... makes you think I don't have... an antidote on me?” He now fully turns to the man, swiveling. “How do I... _really_ know it’s poison? I mean… I could... just be feeling a little... drunk.”

The man lowers his high collar to reveal his face in whole. “You left the room in a hurry.”

Reno’s blood rushes ice cold, a cramp starts in his belly, his flesh prickles painfully over his scalp and arms. He’s not going to drop. He’s not going to tap out. He’s got this. He’s functioned blind drunk plenty of times before. This is nothing. This is drifting home after a Friday night. He’s not supposed to keel over and bite it like this anyway, he’s destined to go out in a blaze of glory and curses.

“Tell me everything you know about Zack Fair and Cloud Strife and their involvement with Sephiroth. What happened at NCB2?” the Director demands.

The words melt and drift.

“Oh… right. Hi, boss…” Reno looks down to the counter at the empty shot glass. He swallows the saliva rushing over his tongue. “Seph went, you know, _nuts_ … Zack’s... a dick and I... want to lick Cloud...” He chuckles a short chuckle at the end, the sudden and sharp pain in his guts draining a lot of the sour humour. He curls in on himself just the slightest bit. He winces and turns his face away to hide the vile, jumping realization.

_Oh, shit. He did poison me._

Sweat starts to itch over his back. His mouth is getting very dry, along with his eyes in their stinging sockets. His hands are wanting to tremble, his muscles wanting to cramp and spasm. He’s feeling like he’s swimming, caught by the tide, but he’s sitting still. His stomach turns, churns, guts readying to grind themselves into hamburger.

He has to act now or that threat is reality.

He stumbles backwards from the bar, wheeling a bit for stability. The stool would have tipped and come with him had it not been bolted to the floor. The Director, Vincent the Veil, he follows Reno, rising like a shadow. They stand, separate, and face each other.

Reno reaches back to pull his pistol. His right hand slides to his right side, wanting for his back holster and one of the two enforcers always there. He has to quickly abort though, something’s coming his way, something after him. He jumps clear, dodging Vincent’s expectant attack.

He was figuring it would be a revolver, or maybe more tricks (knives, chains, a dramatic smoke screen), based off the poison, and his age and reputation, but Vincent swings out a fucking sword at him, and it almost opens him right across the belly. He had enough sense left to spring clear, but he doesn’t land evenly on his feet.

Vincent takes advantage and storms in.

Reno dodges another slash and gets that hand on his firearm, making progress. The first shot goes straight into the wooden floor behind them. It’s loud, expanding and rebounding inside the enclosed area. He was too busy side-stepping another attack and dancing into a table and chairs to lift it any higher for proper aim. His finger on the trigger was itchy. He’s anxious and desperate and compromised. The sleepy calm of the late morning is broken just like that.

_They’ll hear that, but they’ll run._

Any other thoughts of Cloud and Zack quickly melt in the haze.

“Can you feel it burning up your stomach?”

Reno staggers, putting all the added room between him and the Director that he can, knocking over more chairs as he drifts. He’s wobbling, airy, and brings his gun up late. If he does survive, he’s going to be thrilled. He’s going to improve his life and take that time off.

“Where is he?” Vincent presses.

Reno shakes his head. He's still sure he's got the drop on him. He's definitely got the distance.

Vincent has his giant sword leveled at him, having raised just his right arm to do so. His right foot is outstretched, left knee slightly bent. He’s pointing out his target. The blade is long, sweeping, curved. It’s only rival in length would have to be Zack’s beast (or Sephiroth’s). Still, it’s just an over-sized dagger with a fancy blade and an odd handle. In fact, that handle looks snub and bulkier than normal...

He’s not pointing out his target... he’s _lining him up_.

Reno lunges away, diving to his right for cover under a distant table. The blade discharges a double blast at his last known location. He slams under the table and slides. It’s not going to save him from another shot, because it’s a damn _gunblade_ , but it will at least cover his location. He took several chairs with him as he went. He must have cleared half the floor. It’s chaos, smoke blooming and hanging.

“That’s… cheating!” he howls, quickly scrambling back to the bar’s wispy edges to throw him.

“I'll stoop as low as I have to… to get a rise,” Vincent counters coolly.

Those are his words. Reno’s own words. He said that to plenty of mugs in his lifetime. He stays lower than low and on the move, sliding around the bar, under the counter’s lift-away door.

“Where is Sephiroth?”

Reno scurries down the bar’s inner lane, rubber mats muting footfall. His vision is blurring, bile rising up his throat. He has to stop. He has to brace and steady.

The next shot from the gunblade tears up the counter to his left. Wood and glass spray inward, splinters and specks flying, flecking and nicking. He covers his face from the blast with his arms, avoiding serious facial damage. More smoke wafts and curls. It’s getting hard to see.

That thing’s no joke.

“You don’t have long now,” Vincent warns.

Reno grits his teeth and scowls his best scowl. He’s been here before. _If this is to be his end_ … and all that jazz. He’s so over it this time around. He just wants satisfaction, not glory, not a song. He just wants to get to the end of the day so he can sit down and relax and breathe, have that drink, and not be shredded to pieces, or lonely, or unsure of every move he makes.

He stands into the smoke screen and lets loose, aiming deep into the forest of chairs and tables and where he last heard Vincent speaking. The handgun is spent in a matter of moments, all eight shots hitting something or other. He drops back behind the bar and finishes the lane, finally meeting its dead end. He starts to reload a fresh clip there, but his fingers protest, fumble, and shake.

“You’ve always been stubborn,” the Director notes. “You should be on the floor.”

No, he’s an _idiot_. He can’t stop the acid this time, it comes bubbling up his throat. He drops the clip and leans to the side to avoid retching right over it. The contents slap frothy onto a rubber mat. He spits the gooey remainder away and feels worse for it. The cramps dig steely needles into his guts. His head is filling with throbbing hot cotton. He can hardly see on his own.

He stands again, gun out, the pair ready and reloaded. What he finds on the other side is Vincent facing him, sword down, calm, sterile, steely, and the smoke clearing just enough. The air is dense otherwise, and too tense. The guy’s waiting as if ready to order a drink. He’s as unassuming as any other face on the street. He’s also kinda terrifying.

Reno would have made another joke here anyway, but as it is, his knees are wanting to buckle, every hint of moisture is already being sweat out, and he’s burning up. He’s toast.

“I can’t… tell you anything... if I’m… _dead_ ,” he remarks, cocky retained.

“Quite right,” Vincent agrees. “You can’t tell _anyone anything_.”

Reno understands.

He was always planning to watch him die.

What he might not have been planning though… is that he’s Reno. He’s going to fight to the raggedy end. He’s not going to be the next Vegas. He’s not going to find himself at the gates, THE gates, those big pearly ones, if they do exist at all (at this rate, he’s kind of hoping not, because he ain’t lookin’ too good), and he’s not going to admit to some pious bearded man in a dress that he was taken out by poison. No. Not _poison_. Maybe a hail of gunfire, disembowelment, a dramatic beheading, or even being exploded apart to the four corners of Gaia. Yeah. That’s the jam. That’s what he wants to say.

_How did you die?_

He vomits a foaming jet of blood over the counter.

_Poison._

“Not looking so good,” the Director chides, clear of the mess. “Had a little too much?”

Reno groans, agonized. He can’t speak easily anymore. He can hardly keep his gun raised, let alone keep it straight and aimed steadily enough to be of real threat, or of any protection. His eyes insist they need to roll to the back of his head. His muscles insist they need to char.

The bar itself has emptied. Everyone cleared out after the first shot.

He stumbles, sways, but leans heavily into the counter and stays stable for a moment longer.

If he could speak, if he wasn’t just the slightest bit afraid he might puke up his very intestines once he opened his mouth, he would be giving his ex-boss, Vincent of Old, so much shit. He wouldn’t be sweating bullets, twisted in the guts, or tasting his own blood. He’s pissed off all the time. A real firecracker. He’s a bubbling cauldron of unresolved traumas and sexual desires. He’s being pulled over the counter by his hoodie and poured onto the floor. 

It happens about the same time the bar’s saloon doors swing open.

They both look, Reno from the floor, the Director from over him.

“No,” Reno moans. “No, no, no… You… _asshole_.”

Guess who’s standing there, larger than life, if not the Legend himself, Zack _fucking_ Fair. He’s got that bomber propeller blade of a sword slung over his broad shoulders and underneath he’s as tall as a juiced-up redwood. His head and his bare chest are bandaged, gleaming, bright white. Could this get any better? Could he look _any more_ like a devoted savior? Reno detests his very image.

“Fuck… _off_ ,” he musters, plaintive and gurgled.

He doesn’t want to be saved by no washed-up SOLDIER, and he sure as shit doesn’t want Cloud in danger and tagging along. He’s supposed to be tucked away and safe, mooning over this jerk, not stoking the fire. They were supposed to be in the clear. Rude was supposed to be the end of it. That whole outcome should have given them enough time for this errand, but instead, thanks again to Zack, here’s more bad news in the shape of their ex-boss.

Thankfully, he didn’t see Cloud at the first strained glance, or this watery, wavering one either. He could still be in the hotel room. But, that might not be so wise either.

The Director lifts him from the back of his hoodie, pulling Reno only inches from the floor as if he were an animal, a hunted kill. He kicks his dropped pistol into the crash of tables and chairs and out of anyone’s easy use. Using his leverage, and his knowledge, he then reaches to remove the pistol still left in its holster at Reno’s spine, and picks the butterfly knife tucked in Reno’s right front pocket. He tosses these aside as well.

Reno is face first over the floor, splayed out, and in twisting, tortured pain. He grabs his guts and writhes in the hold, breath hissing, forehead scalding.

“Here for _this_?” the Director asks of Zack. He lets Reno drop to the floor.

Reno groans and rolls to his side from there, coiling into a quivering mess.

He hears Zack scoff, “You came in person? I’ll make you regret that.” He's angry, fiery, and he’s not talking to Reno for once.

“There _is_ something about you, isn't there?” Vincent answers, cool and in control. “Is it my voice you’re responding to or do you really see me? Hojo raved about his progress… You exceeded his cautious expectations. He regretted not being more... stringent though. I have to wonder if he was right all along and not just insane and desperate to live.”

“Did you kill him? Just doing me more favours, guy...”

“You should understand I’ve been looking for you. All of you. Where is Cloud?”

“Forget him. You've got me.”

“Where is Sephiroth?”

“I killed him.” 

Reno tosses and rolls. From what his wobbly, unstable vision tells him, they’ve set up several feet from where he’s floundering and dying on the floorboards. How considerate. They’re just steps from the main door and where Zack entered the event. Reno’s been left on his own.

If he could crawl and reach his guns… he might be able to... But, as he lurches up and forward, intending to drag himself, he slips, his traitorous left hand too moist and uneven a foundation thanks to Sephiroth’s odachi and his deadly bitch fit. He drops to dash his chin on the floor. He is deflated, defeated, and doesn’t quickly try again. What headway he might have made he can’t measure. It’s not going to matter anyway.

“That’s unlikely,” Vincent answers Zack.

Reno twitches.

“It _was_ unlikely…” Zack confirms.

It’s hard not to listen, regardless of his lack of interest and present level of focus. Their voices bounce into his throbbing head to stick and rattle. They’ve spoken just steadily enough, back and forth, tit for tat, that Reno is drawn back in from the shimmering depths of pending afterlife at every reply, conjecture and retort. He hovers and stutters, suffering and smothered, sure he’s stopped breathing twice now. The air is mocking him anyway, rushing through his head and straining in his ears. His chest is burning. His guts are turning.

 _Unlikely_ he said. He’s lying. He _let_ him go. Zack’s a liar. He still sweet on Sephiroth, and power, and fame. He’s going to get Cloud killed. He’s getting _him_ killed right now, just look at this. If he lives to see the end of this day—Zack that is, because the odds always seem to be in his favour, no matter the damage dealt, no matter the right of it—Reno’s going to give him one hell of a nightmare to worry about. It’ll include (but not be limited to) some serious skull-fucking.

“You…” Reno gurgles, lifting himself for a second try. “ _You_ …”

They can’t hear him. They won’t hear him.

He howls and regresses into a contorted ball.

A bullet would be mercy.

A sword blade would be charity.

He would do it himself if he had his gun and the motor function. He’s got to find his weapons. He’s got to try. He’s got to fight and pull and dig deep. He can’t lose any of them, not the twin .45 handguns, but especially not that knife.

“Vegas…” he groans, wanting to give up, to call it quits.

He crawls and crawls and then sprawls, belly and cheek dropping to scuffed wood. His vision has gone dim. His guts seize and protest. He doesn’t have the energy to vomit, to force the toxin out, the mess simply bubbles in his throat and makes him choke.

He wasn’t expecting a reply.

“Reno…”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he blurts, shuddering and surprised. “You… You...” 

“Don’t move.”

“You were _right_... I can’t… do this… I _can’t_ …” He coughs and cringes, reaching out.

“You’ll be fine.”

“I’m… sorry… sorry… fuck everything… just want...”

“Stay still.”

“Just want… I want…”

“ _Reno_. Lie back.”

“ _Please_.” He finds him and latches on, rising higher, shaking with whatever he has left. “I couldn’t… I’m fucked… just… let me... take me… take me... _home_ … home...”

And it’s this thought, this warm idea of an imaginary place built and constructed and mused over, mulled over, wished over for years and years, from childhood into now, from both parties—light and dark, the red-haired twins—that finally sends him into the abyss.

He relaxes just enough inside the concept of reprieve, love, understanding and protection (things neither of them knew as a whole), believing his brother was always there with him, and takes that last hitching breath. Exhaling a sigh, involuntary, his lungs expel the air of their own power.

 

 

_Status: Unknown - Location: Costa del Sol_

He’s dizzy heading down the inn’s stairs to street level. Zack is already across the sand-choked main lane and entering the bar, saloon doors sweeping open. He doesn’t follow after him mostly because he’s support, and mostly because his head is sending him to the ground. He stumbles and catches the railing up to the bar’s landing, but he doesn’t hold onto it. His knees smart over the wooden steps, his head throbbing red and white fireworks.

Zack’s improving and he’s trailing behind.

Cloud collects himself, literally and figuratively, lugging reluctant limbs and both his and Reno’s rucksacks (quickly packed up from the room) up the rest of the steps to the entrance of the bar. He makes sure he’s far enough away from the swinging doors and then groans.

After a long moment, when he’s sure he can, vision at needle point surely returning, he stands and dips to glance through one of the bar’s front windows. He doesn’t have long to watch before Zack is busting out those same saloon doors and making a sudden crash. 

Cloud snatches at the opportunity as Zack passes, being herded by a shrouded figure. He slides inside the bar right after them, staying low and lean. The longer he stays out of sight the better. He needs to center himself, to recover, and rethink. And he needs to find Reno.

The bar is dim and quiet inside. A low, crackling song plays from the radio. The smell of cordite, booze, and something sour, something organic, hangs imposing in the air. He can’t see a soul. No one else appears to have been involved in the issue but for the hooded figure after Zack. That’s a plus. Maybe it really was just a bar fight and they can go back to being peaceful.

It’s not exactly looking promising though. Chairs and tables, the entirety of the bar’s seating (save for the hangings on the walls and most of the long counter and most of the bolted stools), are strewn and toppled. It looks like a half-assed attempt at a sit-in bonfire.

He wades in, hearing Zack and the other now out in the street, still occupied. It’s quiet enough, just heated voices. Nothing too dramatic. Yet. He focuses on his part of the deal. Could Reno be gone already though? No one’s here. It’s more likely he stood his stubborn ground.

Cloud takes several steps forward and halts. That was a scrape and a shuffle, a muffled groan. Following it across the bar’s distressed floor, to the center of the tossed furniture, he finds a leg. Coming around a turned table, this leg is revealed to be attached to a body spread out on its side. The body is stretched and reaching as if having crawled. It’s now absolutely still.

“Reno,” Cloud whispers, crouching next to him.

The bodyguard starts and trembles aware. “ _Fuck_ ,” he blurts. “You… You…”

“Don’t move,” Cloud suggests.

“You were _right_... I can’t… do this… I _can’t_ …” He’s reaching for Cloud, rising on his elbows.

“You’ll be fine.”

He’s faded, he’s pallid, he’s soaked in sweat. He looks the part. He looks dead.

“I’m… sorry… sorry… fuck everything… just want...” he gasps and pleads.

“Stay still,” Cloud insists.

But, he’s not there to stay, he’s checked out.

“ _Reno_. Lie back,” Cloud urges.

Reno latches onto him, grip vicious. He’s apologizing. He’s sorry. He’s talking to his dead brother. He’s sweat and sick soaked. “ _Please_ ,” he hisses into Cloud’s face, a complete loss, a hell of an aroma. “I couldn’t… I’m fucked… just… let me... take me… take me... _home_ … home...” He sags, relaxing, bloodshot eyes rolling closed.

Cloud eases him back to the floor, following him the entire way and then rising to hover over and monitor. Reno shivers and takes a shallow breath, seeming to ease. He’s in a tight spot, but as Cloud looks over him, having a better view now that he’s front side up, he doesn’t appear shot up or beat up, even as he’s red tinted and in a state.

Cloud is relieved, and then he’s worried. Reno’s not just relaxing, or taking a breather, he’s gone loose and limp right before him.

“Reno!” he whispers loudly, jolting him with both arms.

For an immeasurable beat Cloud’s sure he’s gone and died on him. He doesn’t respond. He shudders and shakes with the movement, ragdoll, but then he springs awake. His elbow flails out and almost clocks Cloud across the chin. He whimpers, he falls back, he rolls to his side and into Cloud’s bent knees.

“Hey,” Cloud prods, shaking his shoulder. “What happened?”

Reno seizes and rolls. “He, he… That _fucker_... He poi… P- _poison_ ,” he sputters, and then, a gleaming realization, “Cloud. _Cloud_. Oh, fuck.”

“Calm down. Seriously. You’re just making it worse. Let me…”

“ _Don't_ ,” Reno stresses and then swallows, throat working thickly. “Don’t… oooh... just stay...”

Cloud stalls. “I thought—”

Reno vomits, a shocking geyser, narrowly missing Cloud’s lap. The contents are red and thick. The smell is acidic and harsh. Whatever he was given is still churning up his insides. He coils and folds in on himself, pressing his face to the floor, to the outside of Cloud’s thigh. He’s groaning and moaning and grabbing at him, making them both a mess.

Cloud could let him succumb. He could pull back, melt away, watch him battle the death throes from off on the fringes. He could walk way. He could rejoin Zack. He has the choice.

He stands, pulling away, sending Reno into a gargled fit, and makes his way to behind the bar’s gutted counter. He's looking under and around what’s left for anything that might improve his deteriorating state. He finds nothing but the busted remains of broken glasses and broken bottles under there. He turns to the storage room, just a doorway beyond the counter, and steps for it. There has to be something in there.

“ _Cloud_ ,” Reno’s calling. “Cloooud. I’m sorry… I’m… fucked… I just… _sat_ there… _I’m sorry_...”

Cloud ignores him. He sets to checking the shelves and other stock. He doesn’t find a thing the first pass, just cleaning supplies and kegs and towels and dishes and a huge sink. Reno’s ranting for him, some sort of temporary life restored. It’s a damning sound, a haunting sound. He won’t hope to rattle it loose... unless it’s replaced by something worse.

“Hey! _Don’t let me... die alone_!”

Cloud mashes his teeth, looking more furiously. A gunshot rings out from the streets, adding to the torment. He starts and knocks a glass sitting at the lip of the sink to the tiled floor. It just misses the rubber slip guard and shatters. Things have gone sour so quickly.

“ _Cloud! You prick!_ ”

As he turns around to leave, resigned to watching Reno die badly—nothing in sight, not even a potion or hangover cure—he spots the medkit mounted on the wall next to the doorway he’d just come through. He jumps for it, tearing the metal box open, Reno’s rasping cries cresting.

The contents pop and scatter. Three vials erupt. Two smash to the floor instantly, individually wrapped bandages fluttering behind. The third, made of plastic, bounces off Cloud’s boot tip and rolls over the low door sill and back into the bar area, out of sight. He’s after it, snatching it up before it gets too far.

With Reno still dying and gurgling in the center of the room, and Cloud’s head still throbbing (and his eye and leg now following), he struggles to unscrew the safety cap. It’s a basic antidote in a simple child-proof container, unlike the other two. All he has to do is get the contents down Reno’s noisy throat. The cap doesn’t want to turn in his damp hands though, and his fingers don’t want to grip, his arms won’t stop shaking.

He reaches Reno as the lid pops open, the sudden slosh sending a splash over Reno’s front and to the floor. He hardly seems to notice.

“Shit,” Cloud mutters.

There is less than half of the liquid left in the vial now, not a full dose. He crouches over Reno, having to catch his yammering jaw to steady him to make a clear shot. He lines the antidote up against his lower lip and bottom teeth, managing to get the remaining liquid down. He releases him, leaving him to his mewling and moaning. He has to check on Zack.

Reno quickly cools and quiets. He’s no longer frantic or cursing his name, but he groans on.

Cloud starts heating up. Out the front window, in the street, there’s someone familiar opposing Zack. He remembers this face. He remembers him too well. It was the day he first met Reno and Vegas, introduced as his bodyguards. It was the day he woke up after stabbing Zack for coming to save him. It was the day his life went from bad to worse, and that man out there pulled the strings. Even Sephiroth stood quiet in his wake.

“You bastard,” he growls, turning to Reno.

Reno, the Shinra employee.

Cloud rushes over to kick him as he slouches recovering.

Reno, the backstabber.

“You _bastard_ ,” Cloud curses.

“Ouch, _ouch_! What the fuck?” Reno squawks, flinching and swinging at Cloud’s incoming boot. “You save me… then you _kick me_ … What the—”

“He’s dealing with _your boss_.”

Reno slides away to avoid a final wild strike. “It’s not like... I wanted him to! Get off my back!”

“I’ve got to help him. _We’ve_ got to.”

“We’ve got to... _get outta here_.”

“Should have done that from the start!”

“Hey! I seem to recall… _you_ being… _hungry_ ,” Reno argues, voice unsteady.

“What did you do anyway? Pick a fight? Open your mouth?”

“ _He_ came up… to _me_ , yo. I wasn’t gonna... _do shit_. I just... wanted… a _fucking drink_!”

He makes a production of standing, wobbling at his peak. He spits and wipes his mouth and chin. He’s still pale, he’s still damp and stained and wasted, but he’s off the floor and no longer making a spectacle of himself.

Cloud protests, “We can’t leave him out there. He’s—”

“Chill. I’ve… gotta... find my stuff, yo. But, I… got an idea,” Reno musters, slicking back the mussed hair from his feverish forehead with his cleaner but damaged hand. It’s a process. “You might not like it though... You, uh… still got that lighter on you... right?” And then he smirks.

Minutes away from almost croaking… Reno smirks that smile.

That old shining and damnable smile.

 

 

_Status: Unknown - Location: Unknown_

Zack is furious. They should have left sooner. They shouldn’t have stayed. He knew they both needed to help Reno, but neither of them quickly admitted it. They don’t need the trouble more so, not for any reason, not then, not now, but the choice was never theirs. Instead, they made a shoddy deal. The only upside to the entire fiasco is that he won’t have to hunt down Hojo _or_ the Director now. One of the last men standing is right here, having brought himself out from behind his damn desk and down from his damn tower to potentially relieve Zack of another annoyance.

It helps that he’s sick of running. More than defiling his half-dead honour, more than defying Cloud (fearful of putting Zack in danger, fearful of being a shitty person), more than his own fear of death, more than his own hate for Reno. He’s sick of turning aside. He’s hardly ready for this fight though, but he also never expected to get this far and last this long.

He is a SOLDIER, as HE knows it, to the day he dies. If he doesn’t honour that honour, what is he really? A coward? A murderer? What was he ever but a sham, a joke, a facade, a blunt tool for an ugly task? He had no choice. He came to check Reno. He came with his sword out and double-timed it to absorb any and all attention. He’ll see this through.

His vision is activated and recharging, working and reforming, but it’s also nowhere near usable or reliable. Cloud’s his best bet every time. He can see him like yellow rays dotted through thick, shifting fog. Otherwise, he can’t pick out his own hand in front of his own face. He’s been shadow boxing, relying on his other senses. He can’t see the Director at all.

A unit of men, a small force, that’s what he expected Shinra to send. Not one of its highest ranking officials right out the gate. The Director was the overseer of SOLDIER and all its branches. He had control of the roughest and toughest unit in all of the territories. Zack talked to him every day, if not every other day (out of avoidance). He’s the nudge that got him started on this downward death spiral. He’s a responsible party. If not THE.

“Gladly kill him all over again,” Zack riles.

“I can hardly believe you. Not some upstart cocksucker.”

“Ouch. You jealous?”

“Naturally, I want what’s best for my son,” the Director explains.

“ _Son_?” Zack barks. “Bullshit.”

The statement surprises him more than the attack. He’s rushed back, Vincent meeting him sword to sword. The force sends them both through the swinging doors and out towards the four low steps down. Zack takes a great stride, a leap of faith, and lands in the dusty main drag behind, foregoing any steps or a fall. He knows Costa del Sol well.

Vincent follows casually, as he stopped at the top of the landing. He descends each wooden step now, step by step, disengaging to reset his attack and posture as only an elder can.

Zack takes no damage but backpedals all the more, putting as much breathing room between them as possible. They square off on either side of the resort’s main strip, spanning the full length of the inn to Zack’s right. The empty streets and the dust and the open air, the sunlight just beginning to glare and singe hot on his naked skin, will all improve Zack’s lacking odds.

“Where is Cloud? Call him out,” the Director presses.

“Why is he so important? _I’m_ the one who killed your _son_.”

“He has valuable information and he’s important to _you_. Just like Sephiroth is important to _me_. I’m the reason Sephiroth had full reign over him. Whatever trauma he perpetrated was engineered. He wasn’t allowed to do anything if I didn’t know about it.”

“That never included me though, right?”

The Director is silent. 

Zack would like to think he must have scowled.

“You have some mixed morals there, buddy,” he digs. “Watching him implode was easier to accept than him being a closet homo, wasn’t it? Don’t act like you’re _looking_ for him. You just want to shut us up. You just want us all silenced because of _your_ bruised ego.”

“I want to preserve his legacy.”

“ _Your_ legacy. You want to preserve _your_ legacy, fuckface. Don’t get that shit mixed up.”

“You couldn’t have bested him.”

“That’s on you guys,” Zack replies, shrugging. “I didn’t go shooting people up with mako poison.”

“Do you think you can best me?”

“I’ll give it a shot.”

“You’re on your way to see your parents, correct? What if I told you... we leveled Gongaga and Nibelheim both last night? You wouldn’t be able to see the black smoke rising in the sky to the west, to the south. Don’t you smell it? Would you be shocked? Afraid enough to wonder, to worry, to get sloppy? You’ve always been sloppy, Zack. Always been too emotional.”

“You don’t have the reasons or the resources.”

“Don’t I? I’m the Director of Shinra’s top dogs, and you killed my son, right?”

Zack frowns. “Shinra’s falling and weak. We practically walked out of your fucking tower.”

“Not falling... _shifting_.”

“And… I’m guessing you want Sephiroth for that?”

“Where is he?”

“ _Damn_.” Zack stomps his foot. “You just won’t believe I killed him, will you? Is it _that_ fucking hard to understand? Do I look that fucking harmless to you? Hojo messed me up but I was a SOLDIER. You should remember that, old man. _You_ made the decision for Sephiroth to groom me. _You_ put too much trust in him. He wasn’t _invincible_. He wasn’t some kind of legend or immortal—he was a _person_. An unstable person. And he broke.”

“ _He_ put too much trust in _you_. He’s the reason you were accepted into SOLDIER. You were written off as fodder. You weren’t selected by anything other than his lust. Just another fling, and a troublesome one. Shinra first assigned you a trooper position, albeit as a captain. We’ve been having fun playing with your SOLDIER image since though. So many new faces joined up all thanks to you... If you weren’t so irritatingly resilient, and irritatingly _interesting_ to Sephiroth, you’d have been forgotten or killed long ago. You’re dead already. Legally you died months ago. You just need to get with the times and catch up. You should be grateful you’re still a hero.”

Zack is unsure. He’s also wilting and feeling it. Sephiroth never gave him any reason to believe _he_ was the reason he had ever moved up the ladder. He never treated him with an ounce of respect or reverence, just suffocating desire. He was his little kitten. But then, as a shred of doubt, as a second guess, he did always say he _owed_ him, didn’t he? 

“You still sent us on your missions. You still let it all happen,” Zack reasons.

“He came to me after seeing you in the field. He raved… I’ve always known my son was unstable and had... unusual tastes… Despite my better efforts he always took to defying me. I’ll do everything I can to make his life easier, and that includes allowing him leniency. He didn’t have a proper childhood. He didn’t have a proper life. He needs a proper companion.”

“He was a monster.”

“He was my _son_.”

“You said _was_.”

“Quiet!” Vincent shouts. He raises his weapon, cocking back the revolver’s double hammers. 

Zack hears it all but avoids the booming eruption by a hair anyway, rolling through the dust. The spread is wide and wild. He quickly gets to his feet, reforming a basic fighting stance, ready for more. Vincent hasn’t moved from his spot there in the street though. That’s good news. That means Zack has time to play. That means Cloud has time to run, like he promised.

“Calling _me_ emotional?” Zack taunts. “You must be getting old, buddy. Must be out of shape. Gotta fight me blind, from afar, and with your fancy upgrade. That’s really honourable.”

“Would you rather we fight hand-to-hand?”

“I’d rather you drop dead and save me the trouble.”

“That sword looks heavy…”

“You have to be related…” Zack sighs. “Similar tactics.”

“ _Effective_ tactics. As effective as telling you that Cloud will be tried for the murder of Sephiroth if he isn’t found soon. And you, already deceased, will be put in as an accomplice. You will be defamed and no longer a hero. He _will_ be convicted and he _will_ be put to death. We’ll broadcast the execution far and wide. A firing squad or the noose, it’s hard to choose. People will cheer either way. You’ll both be marked as villains. Simple as that.”

“Assuming you find Cloud... Assuming I don’t fillet you.”

“Assuming Sephiroth’s dead.”

“Now you’re trying to make me think I _want_ him alive…”

“It would improve your chances of survival.”

“Survival rests on your demise.”

“How much longer should we talk?” Vincent asks, clearly amused.

“Not very eloquent, but I sure can go on…”

“He must be close then, if you need to stall this long.”

“Could just like the conversation.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Zack grips and twists his sword’s handle. He can’t take the Director like this. Not blind, not this sleep deprived, not this thoroughly dubious. He can only hope to draw him off, lead him away, or do something flashy, dramatic, drastic… and dumb. If it means safety for Cloud, and even Reno, he would. If it means an end to this, he should.

He brandishes his surrogate sword, ready for the conclusion and confrontation, bringing the blade level slowly and surely, exaggerating the difficulty and the weight just a hint. He’s starting the show. Both hands are firm, both feet are spread and stable. He’s going to need to be sharp, but he’ll need to be sly more so, and perfectly sloppy.

They might be effective, his own tactics, but they also compromise his very preservation. The plan relies on him getting as close to defeat as possible without failing and then _prevailing_ … only to fail again (or not). He has to climb to the peak, struggle and slip the entire way, touch just the top, just graze it, and then fall all the way back down. If he lives through this one he’s really going to have to watch out afterwards. He might just sneeze a day later and drop dead for no evident reason.

_Lived as a punching back, died as a fluke._

What a headstone. Who’s going to be around to give it to him? If he fails, Cloud will be executed. Reno will be gone. His parents (if he wants to listen to the Director) are _already_ dead. Sephiroth went mad. Kunsel went bad. The resistance abandoned him. No one is left. He’ll lie in the streets of Costa del Sol until the residents resurface to bury him, or drag him to a ditch.

He’s got to get this right.

He can live with permanent rest on a beautiful beach.


	29. Chapter 29

_Status: Unknown - Location: Unknown_

The Director slashes in, bringing his blade straight down into Zack’s own, unsettling him none. He’s testing Zack’s block, his strength, and the give of his over-sized sword, pushing forward, stressing, hissing, but Zack forces him to stall, and then he sends him stumbling back. He swings his giant blade out at full arc, fully extended, and full bore, winded at once.

He’s damn lucky they don’t have an audience. Any sort of shifting movement or voices in the distance (or close by) would make this already difficult match improbable. He can mark Cloud there in the bar, in the void, illuminated in periphery, mostly golden, all precious, still moving, and _too damn close_ , but not much else. He’s inside dealing with Reno, being the good guy, and that’s stabilizing Zack enough to keep him collected and cool out here. Everything else... the street, the buildings, the Director... he’s at less than 10% vision. Zack’s in the dark. 

He waits out every swing, slice, and lunge rather than charging in himself. He wants the Director close. He parries with his own knocks and jabs and metal-scraping glances, taking little shots and shoves as he can. He’s got some stamina, thanks to Cloud and his looking after, but he’s not up to snuff because of the lack of sleep, war wounds and mako. He’ll never quite know that vitality again. The Director, in better shape (but twice his age) might yet be able to wait him out. He’ll drag him down before the end if Zack lets him. He has the motivation and the edge.

Zack flinches after a deflected heavy strike and takes a beating for it. The gunblade hastily returns to break his guard and slash across his forearm, sliding up and back, cutting edge dragging itself both ways (upstroke, downstroke), biting deeply. Knocking his giant sword low on recoil, the blade sings all the long damn day down its length, and then flicks away.

The Director is relying on the double revolver option of his sword less and less. He’s feeling more and more confident. This is good, this is bad. It means he’s going to stay close like Zack wants. He can read his responses and catch him off guard with a moment of clarity. It also means the Director can deal real damage, and that might just end the fight.

Zack guesses at his moves, playing the scene in his mind, going through practice and training, poses and stances, hoping that he’s right enough. This isn’t his best swordsmanship, he’s only gotten rusty with wear and disuse (and his tool is massive), but he’s still holding his own. Forty percent of the blows Vincent rains down on Zack he deflects entirely, and that’s not too bad. The rest sting and thud resonance; ache into his flesh, his hands, his very bones.

The Director, old Shinra, old SOLDIER, he is more myth than man. He still is just a man, a mortal, like Sephiroth, and like him, he still just wants to watch Zack squirm and bleed and break. He’s got weaknesses. He’s got that same ego and anger, but. Zack knows, just as the Director knows, he’s holding all the cards, and he’s pulling all the strings. His former boss could end this just as quickly and violently as he is dragging it out slowly and painfully.

This had gone differently in Zack’s mind. He should be wise to that by now, but his learning curve never quite adjusted. They plan for contingencies and accidents and surprises in training, but he rarely listened. At the very least, he made it across the sea. He’s on his home turf.

“Ah, fuck!” Zack shouts. His knee is kicked out. He sprawls and drops but doesn’t fall. The sudden strike leaves him vulnerable and leaned over.

Vincent shows his appreciation by sending him flying onto his back with a knee to the face.

Things are getting dirty fast.

Zack lies where he lands and shakes his head, clearing some of the fog (but more of the surprise). His ears are ringing. His nose is busted, might be broken, but it’s definitely not happy and showing it. Hot blood gushes over his lips and chin. The prominent taste of his life anymore.

He hasn’t dropped the sword though. It remains in his right hand. If he does drop it... he really is done, and he can kiss his slipshod tactics goodbye. There’s no easy way at the moment for him to locate the sword again, even with it being so large. He’d be scanning a sea of jet for the slightest blue. That unreliable vision taunts; dots and stars flicker and snap. He can almost see Vincent’s disruption in the glistening show above as he stalks up to cast a shadow.

“You’re not giving me your best…” he says.

“I’m hardly _at_ my best…” Zack retorts.

(... _stand up, stand up_ …)

“What?”

Vincent does not directly respond. “Let’s try this…” he says, hanging near. “You seem to be a little confused after that one... Where is Sephiroth?”

“I... _killed him_ ,” Zack spits, blood spraying, visible red.

A hand comes down from above to lock on his slicked throat. Zack only sneers, delighted.

This disrupted shadow above is giving him substance. It’s starting to become evident, if not clear. The Director’s aura is there, simmering, glistening on the surface, impossible to catch, because his aura is black, charcoal, oil slick; a deep smudge. He is veiled from Zack’s view.

“You disappoint me,” the Director drawls.

Zack’s smile is beatific but gruesome. “Shouldn’t you... be used to that by now?” he asks.

The hand releases and the shadow retreats.

“Stand up,” the Director instructs.

Zack does so, intending to of his own accord anyway. He takes his time. He feels every wound.

“Hojo never expected you to live,” the Director taunts in the meantime. “You were a crash course. You went back to being fodder so quickly. He was trying to burn you out.”

“Well, he succeeded there…”

Cloud’s still a low glow inside the bar. He should have cut and run by now.

“You can’t expect to go on like this,” Vincent opines.

Why hasn’t he cut and run?

“I don’t expect a lot,” Zack breathes, swaying, settling and refocusing on the Director. He lurches the giant sword out before him. It gets about halfway upright before pounding unceremoniously back to the sandy street. “Yeah, see. Wasn’t expecting that…”

He tries again, valiant, bearing its full weight, groaning under the crush, finally victorious.

“Resilient,” the Director notes. “Brave.” He makes the gunblade ready as he speaks the next words, layering them over to mask the _click click_ of the multiple hammers flicking into position. “And desperately stupid.” He takes the shot, allowing the revolver to shout and shred.

Zack has little time to react. He chooses to block, lifting the handle of the giant sword high and dry and planting the tip in the soft ground, blade side braced against his worn out boot. He ducks behind this, making the wide sword a shield, avoiding a fatal wound.

It’s warming against his face. That sky blue, ocean tint, liquid soft. Its advantage in size makes it usable in so many different situations. It’s a shield, it’s a ram, it’s a hammer. It’s also exhausting and bulky, and turning the bones of his hands against him.

He lashes out before the ringing of the shots fade, gripping the handle and charging the Director, needing a taste, needing a good stand, needing to prove he can. He slashes and stomps, bringing the sword up and down, over and under, locomotion. The Director has no choice but to guard and dodge and give up the ground. He rushes back as Zack rushes forward, dust and sand kicking and swirling, the smell of it thick in the humid air.

The Director soon updates his tactics. The gunblade roars. A single is shot fired. The blast comes during his counter, a strike from above, an answer to Zack’s chaos. The extra force breaks his stance and barrage, sending his giant sword’s tip off to his side and into the dirt. 

He recovers, able to barely divert and mark the Director’s quick and opportunistic follow up. The gunblade roars its battle cry again, propelled, crashing itself into Zack’s already lifted blade. The weapon catches precariously on Zack’s giant sword’s crossguard, driving his arms up and his spine crooked to suffer the full load. They’re locked now, caught, the power struggle real. Zack drops to a knee, the gunblade coming that much closer to his face and throat.

He isn’t sure if the Director will have to reload or not. He might not have the strength to press on. His outfit might be lined with unspent shells, and other tricks. The gunblade could be cocked for many more shots. If he does fire while caught up like this, Zack’s giant sword might be used against him and he’ll end up with it embedded in his shoulder. With a wound like that, Zack won’t be able to lift anything beyond his belt. There’s the sputtering crescendo.

The Director will have a small army waiting to descend on the resort even if Zack does get a lucky shot in and knocks him off balance, or into the next dimension. They’ll be waiting to hop out of the woodwork and take everyone down at the slightest sign. They could be snipers. They could shoot early. They could find Cloud. They could swarm now.

“You’re no SOLDIER,” the Director breathes, pressing, stressing, loving every second.

“Not if you’re the standard,” Zack grits through clenched teeth, maintaining his level.

“I know they’re both close by. They’re watching from a window, or they’ve run off into the jungle.” The Director’s breath is even, unlaboured. “They’ll be picked up either way. You’re just trying to hold me up. Do you really want to die so badly? Can you not live with the shame?”

Zack grunts and sweats, the strain draining, but on he retains. “I only regret…” he struggles, containing his slipping grip. “I regret... getting _fucked_ by your fruity son all day.”

He can feel it, see it, smell it. The rage, the incense, it’s a chain reaction, and the Director is reacting badly. He’s starting to boil and brew, constrict and coil, just how Zack wants him to. His inky aura shifts and heats, deepest purple to burgundy black. His next move will be wild and vicious and blind, but something Zack can use. 

“Yo! _Boss_!”

Only, the timing’s off.

Zack didn’t hear the squeak of the saloon doors, but he does hear the shuffle of boots and sneakers sliding over the wood of the landing encircling the exterior of the bar. These shamble and skid and drop into the dust of the unpaved main strip. From there, they stumble forward.

He doesn’t need to look over to find the truth and the damning reality, he knows Reno has Cloud controlled. He would have seen it in the way Cloud moves, but more in how he didn’t, because he’s hemmed. He’s a lot brighter, a lot closer, and no longer hidden away. There he is, hunched and hanging, Reno’s outlined arm over his throat keeping him from yelling out or breaking free. He’s struggling some, but not as much as he would under healthier volition.

 _I can see it in your eyes_ , Zack had said. It was honest and it was just starting to show. Cloud can't fight back because he’s injured, he’s weighed down. Zack had hoped, had prayed, that he was just seeing things before on the boat. It was paranoia, his tired mind, but the reality is twice as harsh, and thrice as progressed. Reno might have done something to him inside the bar, but more likely, it’s all up to that green shimmering stain inside Cloud’s skull. There was fear before... now the remnant of Sephiroth cannot be denied. Cloud is again overrun.

“Found something,” Reno chimes.

“ _Reno!_ ” Zack and the Director howl over each other.

While he balks, probably mouthing a heated curse, Zack wards off his blade and that crushing end. The sudden rush of rage and adrenaline bolsters his swing, clearing his delay, making it happen. He tosses the gunblade, and the Director, clear and away.

Speedily pulling back after the minor victory, Zack adds to their spread, dragging the giant sword with him. He needs to reset, recalculate and rest (most of all). Reno’s addition and betrayal changes up any game plan. Cloud’s condition and presence severely clips his actions and opportunities. Things have gone from bleak and right on into dire.

“I _knew_ it! You _gutless_ bastard!” Zack reviles.

“Fuck off, _Fair_ ,” Reno hisses, voice laden.

Cloud jerks and pulls in his arms. They’ve wandered into the street between them.

“I’ll kill you! Let him go!” Zack roars. “You’re so fucking _dead_.”

“Whatever, man,” Reno grunts back. “He… fucking _poisons_ me... and I still prefer _him_... over _you_ … What does that say? You’re a _liar_. You’re a joke. _Wake up!_ ”

Zack’s brandishing his oh-so-heavy sword. He’s scalding, scorching, seething, but he can’t be, he must see, he must hear, he must be clear. “ _I’m_ a liar? You turned on us! He trusted _and_ defended you! You’re getting him killed!”

Reno gargles a short laugh. He is a wisp of bronzed nothing against green-gold Cloud. “He’s a _dupe_ , man... A fucking daisy. At least... he’s… pretty to look at. He's too soft for this... and I’m sick of... kidding myself. I’m not... a good... person.”

“Oh, but good boy,” Vincent remarks at last. “No accounting for taste, of course... I always liked your gumption. Loyalty out of necessity. Wonderful to see you haven’t died.” 

Cloud’s tainted aura twists and jerks. Reno struggles to contain his jolting and clawing. He’s going for broke. He hasn’t given up just yet. “Let… _go_ ,” he manages to growl.

Zack tenses.

Reno abruptly complies, flinging Cloud to the open street with a brutal shove from behind. Cloud’s head whips and he careens to the ground and the ditch edging the inn. He hits hard, outstretched arms and elbows colliding first, body following up, crashing and rolling. It’s slow motion. It’s insufferable. But, not everything is as it seems.

“Heads up!” Reno crows, and he throws a molotov at Vincent’s shroud.

It smashes over the Director’s lifted elbow and spreads across his full hood and shoulders. The flames are clear and bright and easy for Zack to follow even sailing through the air for that glimpse. Those licking fingers outline Vincent in a flickering embrace, perfectly illuminating. He’s thrashing and swinging and tearing off his burning cloak.

Overcome by anger and then struck by relief and revelation, Zack advances, using the diversion to dive forward and meet Cloud. Already up and limping towards him, Cloud comes laden and lacking. The short distance is bridged, their hands meet, things greatly improve.

“Run!” And there goes Reno sprinting by. 

Zack has a moment of hesitation.

Staying means his probable death and Cloud’s.

Leaving means his parents’ deaths confirmed.

He grips Cloud’s hand and pulls him after, following Reno. They dart to the inn’s courtyard across the street, moving alongside the edifice and cutting a quick left to swing behind, now parallel with the main street, parallel with Vincent, and separated by the hotel’s wood and plaster. They’re headed into the dense green, the jungle, and out towards dusty central land.

“Run and hide!” Vincent howls after them, over every roof, over their heavy breathing, and the crash of the ocean waves. “You’re always running away, Zack! Keep running! Run!” 

Clearing the resort's perimeter, the trio melt into the wilderness for cover.

 

 

What a day.

Being dragged by Zack, Cloud’s not doing well. Zack can feel him limping along on the very leg he’d broken in their second crash. He won’t have the chance to check him, fleeing the way they are, but he’s keen to know. He’s keen to get to a level of safety and take a good, long breath, and a good, long look, and have a good, long conversation. He’s also not. Not at all, because he doesn’t want to peer into Cloud’s face and see the evidence. Sephiroth’s still there.

Reno’s quick and hard to follow, but he’s not the same as before. His aura has taken on a bronzed effect. Where he was silvery mist before, he is solid mass now, and much easier to spot. That’s still proving dodgy. He’s still got the advantage on Zack. He can see where he’s going and he’s probably slept within the last 72 hours.

“Come on… Keep moving,” he urges from ahead, pushing through the thick flora.

The jungle is dense and dangerous (and the move probably expected), but it’s also constricted on either side by water, a sort of forested channel. They can’t get lost so much as gummed up. It covers the peninsula-shaped area connecting the resort to the mainland, thinning into grassy plains beyond. The longer inland you travel, you'll find long bouts of nothing and the Gold Saucer rising from a dust bowl. At the continent's southernmost point, ultimately on a separate chunk of land bisected by river, you'll also find the rising jawbone of the mountains. Gongaga’s farther down still, on the opposite side of that river and ridge, and all alone.

Getting home was never an easy task. _Leaving_ wasn’t an easy task. They’re looking at hundreds of miles from where they are now, outside of Costa del Sol, and to the closest good-sized settlement. It’s going to be a trek over valleys and river. It’s going to be bouncing from point to point, settlement to village, camp to encounter. Unless they get a lift.

It never really looked good, and now they have a confirmed tail. An _angry_ tail. Zack’s positive the Director won’t be taunting now, he’ll be exacting. Any faulty threat will be made real.

They're making good progress, cutting a straight line and staying true. That is, they were, before Zack lifts his foot over a low branch to be stopped by a tree stump. He can’t mark the foliage very well. Everything has a radiance, but not the important details. Mako energy courses through all life on the planet. That’s the benefit and the downfall. He can’t see where most things begin and end, especially under Cloud’s lamplight.

He goes over the stump, toppling and swinging Cloud to the side to falter into some brush or a bush. They both go down; thorns and barbs stinging and sticking.

Reno waits after having helped Cloud to his feet, only because Cloud’s busy helping Zack.

“I’ll lead,” Cloud offers, abominable gold and green hand reaching out and down to him, wholly unholy. He’s lips and lashes, flesh and flushing, constricting pupils, teeth meshing. He boasts high detail. He’s everything, and that emerald.

“How’s your leg?” Zack asks outright, pointed and bare naked from down on his rear in the weeds and underbrush, no longer able to hold off the care and the verbal vomit.

A little awkward, a little embarrassing (if he ever really did that), and a lot out of place. It's a wonder he didn't ask sooner. He wanted to as the Director thrashed and burned. He wanted to before that. At every glance. _How ARE you?_ A thousand times over, into his sleepless nights.

“ _What?_ ” Reno squawks first. “You're so—”

“I’m fine,” Cloud answers, too calm and too firm.

Zack hears his stress, as much as he sees his stress, but he can’t do much about it (not now, maybe not ever), so he reluctantly takes Cloud’s outstretched hand and reshoulders his giant sword with his left hand. He stands with more than a little of Cloud’s insistent help. “Is there smoke in the sky?” he asks, quickly switching the subject.

“Not that I can see,” Cloud responds from ahead. “Why?” 

“Was your village rebuilt after you left?”

“Uh. I, uh, don’t know… Why?”

Zack can’t trust the Director was telling the truth. If Nibelheim had been rebuilt since Cloud left then there would be something to burn (obviously). But, if it wasn’t rebuilt, and the surviving villagers abandoned the town to move on, there wouldn’t be much for Shinra to raze.

It sounded like a lie. It probably was a lie. That still doesn’t change the fact that Zack might not have a home to arrive to when they do finally get there. If there is now, there won’t be tomorrow. The Director’s headed there. That smoke might yet rise.

“This is... bullshit,” Reno groans. He sounds ill, congested, and stretched thin. He also smells like vomit. “You’re rambling, Cloud’s hurt. And, I mean, I knew _Rude_ was after me… and some other folks... but now HE’S after me too? That means THEY’RE after me. The whole hive. You really pissed them off. His SON? What the fuck is that?” He waits for Zack to pass so he can direct the next remark at him personally. “Daddy doesn’t like you,” he hisses, jabbing a longer finger to dig Zack’s aching shoulder.

“I don’t like him either,” Zack drones, tired and annoyed and not afraid to show it.

“ _I_ don’t like _you_ ,” Reno bites, digging and digging.

“Come on...” Cloud tries, doing his best to pull Zack forward and away from Reno and the standoff brewing since they first collided. He’s not moving him though, only showcasing his lacking state. He won’t budge Zack’s resolve to flout Reno. “We’re not—”

“—out of the woods yet?” Reno finishes. He quits and turns to carry on, already bored. “Why am I always the one leading? Aren’t I the... _untrustworthy_ one? The lovable rogue...”

“You’re the… scout,” Cloud answers, voice breaking as he concentrates to navigate both himself and Zack over the abundant obstacles, hand-in-hand. “You’ll be shot first. That’s our angle. No blood on our... hands. And we get away… without any real losses.”

“I know you’re joking... but damn. That’s messed up,” Reno mumbles.

“Joking?” Cloud scoffs. “I'm not a daisy.” But, his fingers tighten in Zack's hand.

Zack made his choice. His parents or Cloud. His fingers tighten right back, gripping with a careful emphasis. He chose Cloud, and he would do it again and again, the very same way, with the same amount of hesitation, because he still has to see this task through.

Cloud is number one. It’s not a doubt. It’s a function. A reflex. It doesn’t matter that his answer was rose-coloured. It doesn’t matter that Zack knows it’s a flimsy lie. He’s going to stand tall with him, and know he _will_ be fine, because he’s going to make sure of it.

They reach the edge of the jungle channel some time later, and without anymore delays, being cautious to come out into the open without a good check first. Zack’s leery of an ambush, and with good reason. That’s the end of their cover anyway, and that’s the end of Cloud holding his hand too. They separate and soak in the expanding landscape and the path that lies ahead.

Somehow they got out with all of their effects. Reno’s guns and ammo (and other). Zack’s sword and jacket. Their rucksacks (water, MREs and more other). And their hides, most of all. Cloud grabbed everything left in the room before they went to check the commotion. He and Reno collected everything as they fled the Director. Reno’s toting all of this now. It’s slim, but it’s theirs. It almost counts as a victory. It’s going to allow them to get to just another checkpoint, and just another bout with Shinra. What a day, yes. It’s progress, and just as much a disaster.

Zack can almost see the curve and roll of the uneven land. There are many low clouds up there in the wide open sky. There’s the sun hanging high, muted but mustering, inverted dark on light. It will be night in hours. It’ll take them hours to get anywhere halfway safe. It won't be fun and it won't be easy. They’ll have to move fast and watch their backs.

“Don’t think anyone’s close behind. Don’t see anyone inland either. What now?” Reno asks.

“What do you mean?” Zack responds. “We walk.”

“We should—”

“Not listen to you,” Zack overrides. 

“ _Hey_ —”

“No, fuck you,” Zack snaps. “You've done enough damage. You’re cut off from offering ideas. You’re on your last leg. I can hear it. I can _smell_ it. We’re walking. We’re clearing that ridge right out there to New Corel. We’ll make camp only when we can’t go on any longer. We’re not going straight to Gongaga. We’ll serpentine and throw them off and just hope they don’t meet us there. Which they will. You doomed my parents.”

“ _I’m_ on my last leg?” Reno trills. “You’re one to talk. And I didn’t do _shit_ but save our skins. _You_ doomed your parents from the day you were born, buddy. You can always go back, you know. Vincent might still be putting his face out.”

“You wanna go back?”

“I’m _fine_ , actually...” Reno protests, stiffening up. “I couldn’t feel better knowing that we’re hunted fugitives, yo. It always makes me want to go for long walks in the countryside… with two people who hate me. Tell me _why_ we’re still going to Gongaga at all? Are you brain damaged? And why zig zag? Why not get there ASAP?”

“They’re more likely to catch us if we go straight on. Detouring takes longer but we might get a chance to rest _and_ find our bearings. I want to be alive to avenge them, _yo_.”

Zack strikes out into the next stage.

Cloud follows.

Reno grunts.

 

 

The weather is mild. It's not even noon yet.

Cloud’s keeping pace but he’s said little.

Reno's still covered in sick, and he’s said too much.

Zack’s out ahead, completing their triangle formation. He’s striding blindly, giant sword shouldered, putting aside the tire and the doubt and the awful fear. He’s still working off of the second wind that whipped up back inside the inn, and that’s proving to be 30% overall power. That’s more than enough for him to function.

If they’re really lucky, they won’t be caught up to today. That’s more good and bad. The Director is going on ahead to Gongaga. That might be a fair guess, but it’s more like predictable in Zack’s knowledge of him. If he hasn’t already, he’s going to carry out his decimation of their small hometowns. He’ll send a unit to pester them of course, but he won’t pursue in person. Especially if he has a wild card. He won’t pursue because he’ll be too busy going house to house to find Zack’s parents. He’ll be roasting Nibelheim just to watch it burn.

Things are in motion. Zack’s got to keep moving too. He’ll walk the entire way there if he has to. He’ll show up crawling. He’ll drag them both behind.

“Why did you even join Shinra?”

It’s as if Reno tore it from his inner dialogue.

“I was bored,” Zack answers.

“That’s it?” Reno argues.

“What do you want me to say? I was born in a tiny village. My parents didn’t have enough money to get out, and even if they did, they didn’t have the desire to. It’s like they... gave up. They got halfway. They had me. I don’t know. I just know I wanted more. I wanted action. And fame. I can’t… remember a time when I didn’t want to be… a damn hero.”

“You’re so vanilla, man.”

“It’s romantic,” Cloud responds, a buzzing drone.

“No. It’s… really painful and stupid and selfish and—” Zack pauses, takes a second, adjusting the sword over his back. “I didn’t even tell them in person I was leaving. I left a letter.”

“Ouch,” Reno exclaims.

“ _Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner_ ,” Zack paraphrases, keeping on the move. “ _I just… really want to be a SOLDIER_. I haven’t been back since. That was… too long ago. I talked to my mom twice. I sent them money. I wrote a few letters. I got a few back. That’s why I need to follow this up. Among other things.”

“That’s depressing,” Reno admits.

“We’ll get you back,” Cloud ensures, his soft, damaged voice disarming.

Zack has no strong, inspiring answer. “Sure,” he replies.

They leave it at that for a long stretch. The conversation afterward is light and wandering, coming on in bursts. Mostly it’s Reno rambling about dicks and booze and gambling at the Gold Saucer, but all of that goes largely ignored or unanswered. The overall air is stiff and sullen. It’s starting to get warm and humid. There’s a storm coming straight for them.

The sudden belt of treeless hills they met after sloping jungle line is slowing their work. They’re already out of sight of the coastline, the jungle, and Costa del Sol, but they're still so close to danger. The hills will soon flatten out, the valley will pick up, and their pace will again increase. It’s prairie from that point on, smooth sailing, and no peace until they drop or hit Corel.

“I missed our birthday.”

“What month is it?” Cloud asks, opening up the lines of communication.

Reno answers, “November.”

“Happy birthday,” Cloud mutters back.

“Thanks.”

“Ditto,” Zack notes. “We survived another year. Don't expect an encore.”

“Happy birthday,” Cloud repeats, tone dipping low. 

As they plod on, that gives Zack a thought. He doesn’t know what the date is because he doesn’t have his cellphone anymore. He relied on that more than he cared to realize. He isn't an organized person, but he likes music, distracting games, and knowing when it’s time to relax. The gadget was fairly new to him too. He didn’t have or need the luxury at home.

“You have a cellphone?” he asks Reno.

After a beat too long Reno answers, “I HAD a cellphone.”

Zack knows he’s lying. His game is slipping.

As they walk, Zack stalls a few steps, letting Reno get alongside before he grabs him and quickly turns him to the side. He’s already inside his hoodie’s deep pockets, digging and pawing, heightened touch and reflexes helping his cause. He finds what he wants in moments and springs back, clearing the confused and then aggressive reply.

“Hey!” Reno shouts, swinging out to miss.

Zack holds the evidence loftily and backpedals. 

“No!” Reno pleads, jolting forward.

Zack brings his arm down, spiking the cellphone off a well-placed rock.

Reno freezes just as it bursts and shatters. He waits a whole ailing heartbeat and then begins to tremble. He’s pointing and then coming for him, but in reality, for his cellphone. “You… _You_ … _Have_ to be…” he moans and he crawls, ignoring Zack to examine the nearest pieces.

“You called him here,” Zack accuses from above. “You gave the Director our location. You’ve been working behind our backs. Whenever you claimed you didn’t want to watch Cloud bandage me? When you left for the bar? All your clinginess? Your brother’s last words? Ridiculous. You were playing nice and _calling_ them here. The poison was to deflect suspicion.”

“ _What!?_ ” Reno shouts, looking up from the remains.

“You’re a spy. You’ve been leading us on,” Zack explains.

“ _Everything’s gone!_ ” 

“Yup,” Zack confirms, shouldering his sword once more.

“Do you have… _any idea_ … what you just DID?” Reno cries. He doesn’t give Zack the chance to answer. “That was—” Reno chokes and coughs, barely composing to start again. He rises, hands fisted and shaking, his intentions clear. “That was... every _photo_ … and _video_ … and _conversation_ … my _brother_ … GONE!”

And now he’s after him, a flaming red-bronze fireball.

Zack isn't bowled over, but he does stagger back several steps when Reno slams in, all anger and action. Zack drops his sword to counter with his all-too-ready fists, wanting to feel him bend and break and cringe with his bare hands.

He socks Reno in the ribs and gut in heated and reverent retaliation, even as Reno snarls and swings on him, aiming for his kidneys but getting spine, over and over. Zack pummels his mark every time meanwhile, a thud and thump, ribs and guts, forcing Reno to recoil and spring clear or face the devastating and permanent consequences.

Leaving his guns and knife untouched, Reno offers him the pleasure of boxing. For now. He’s already panting and waiting, bringing his gleaming red fists steady, ready and willing. He gestures Zack on, all the rage and the distrust and disappointment bubbling and gushing up.

And Cloud is left to watch. “Stop!” he shouts. He won’t hope to intervene. They're in deadlock. They're really going to kill each other, rabid and ruthless.

“Zack, stop!” He tries anyway, dodging or absorbing their throng, pulled punches and shoves included. He’s attempting to get them apart, trying their arms and wrists, trying to stand between, but it's no use. He’s wobbling and weak and they don’t dare harm him or disengage. He's knocked back and stays back. “Assholes!” he curses, finally melting out of Zack’s radar.

They’re left to connect and coil, arc and strike. Reno's thin but he's got real spunk and the training. He’s also motivated. Very motivated. For every blow Zack lands, Reno has an answer. It’s a dodge, or a block, or a mirror. He kicks and elbows and throws his whole body at him, using those long limbs. He's not going easy. He’s not playing fair. He’s out for blood.

They’ve stopped to tussle in the dusty low down plains of the western continent, out in the middle of nowhere, within a stone’s throw of people who want to kill them. They’re sending punches and tossing kicks, bleeding and groaning, terrorized and exiled, and it’s just now starting to rain. The stage is set. The sun is sinking. Carry on dancers.

Reno takes a licking, but he keeps coming back for more. He’s fiery by now, no longer grey and shimmering, or bronze and solid, but full on blazing. Every strike he offers is a thundering one, even from his left arm and damaged hand. He brings the limb down like a hammer after a stunning right hook, using forearm or elbow instead of fist. He’s already tenderized Zack’s left ribs with this technique and he’s looking to do the same to the right. He’s sneering clenched teeth white hot, molten eye sockets streaming, just banners and flashes.

Zack tastes blood, old and new, and rain. He can take a licking himself. He’s dragging every breath through his mouth and over his tongue. He can’t breathe through his nose anymore. That stopped being possible long ago. His fists are numb. His lungs and his legs are too. Every movement is a feat of concentration, aggravation and a final nasty sputter of acidic adrenaline. It’ll angrily dwindle and leave him bone dry. Zack’s bigger and stronger than Reno (recently poisoned), but he’s also running on empty. His stamina is legendary but it’s not endless.

Reno cracks the ridge of his knuckles into Zack’s momentarily vulnerable jaw. The force knocks Zack’s head back, splinters his vision, and vibrates every one of his teeth. They crunch and throb as he mashes them during the staggering recovery. He leans and he swallows blood. He’s gasping hot, but the rain falling easily finds his bare head and soaks through his jacket to freeze his flesh. He clenches his fists, he takes a breath, he stabilizes.

“Getting tired?” Reno breathes.

He’s on him again so soon, coming in swift and sideways to stress his exhaustion and wrap him up with his long arms, sleeves sopping. He forces Zack into a lock from behind, his speed and wit a boon. If he gets a good enough grip he might just put the sleeper on him, and that means it’s lights out for Zack. He could force him to his knees and dislocate his arms for fun. With enough brute strength he could snap his neck and cut the cord.

Zack isn’t ready for any of that though, and Reno lacks that needed brute strength. With real power and ferocity, Zack fights back, giving Reno no choice but to break his slipping grip around him. Zack turns on him just as quickly, using that wide open window. He swings in with a fist, and another, catching Reno first in the face and then the upper torso, devastating clavicle.

Reno tumbles backwards, brought to a skidding, slipping halt in the rain. His sneakers give him almost no traction at all. He pants and hunches, holding his shoulder. The mud and the wet and the cold and the toil are piling up. “I’m exhausted,” he admits.

“Just stop!” howls Cloud.

Out comes the knife.

 

 

_Status: Unknown - Location: Western continent_

He's going down, and he knows it, but there’s nothing to be done. Not much is going to stop it, reverse it, or dismiss it from being. He’s been on the edge and hiding it for too long (stuck, infected, befouled, tainted), and what an edge it is. At the long drop downward, those thousands of feet, a famished fall, is Sephiroth and all his mire and vile and grinning, looking up at him. Cloud’s toes poke over the break. He’s teetering and waving his arms for balance. 

Reno didn’t trick him, and he wasn’t trying to. They hurriedly agreed to his plan and then hurriedly went through with it, grabbing an unbroken bottle of spirits and tearing a bit of Reno’s t-shirt for the wick. Cloud wasn’t overcome or forced into anything, but those options, those choices again—he didn’t have many, so he went along. He willingly used his body to hide the bottle and they stumbled to the breach together, collectively dragging the depths. Reno was shaking behind him; his every bone. The poison’s still in his system even now.

The shove was planned. And he went with it. Zack, bloodied and bullied, was tuned into everything, and he watched everything, and he heard everything. Hours ago, he was a barely understandable shell helpless to stay awake. There, in the dusty and sandy street of the resort, he looked like a wild beast caught, poised and pissed. He roared like one too. He promised to kill Reno. He defended Cloud to the end.

And it still feels so wrong. Zack shouldn’t be here again, a wild beast. He shouldn’t want to carry out his promise against Reno, blinder now than he’s ever been, induced by rage and doubt, and so willing to die. Cloud has a monster in his head. Zack’s protecting what he tried to destroy.

Cloud felt him coming on like a fever, like the mist proceeding a storm. He crept over him from reboot, and now he’s choking thick. He smells traces of spiced tea, honey sweet and gooey thick blood. He hears _his_ voice low, demanding, deceptive, and degrading. The wound he championed from Reno in Junon healed by morning. He wrapped and washed it, sure they would catch on otherwise. But, he knows Zack knows. He can see it now. He guessed.

He’s not to be protected, he’s to be expunged.

_Just stop!_

Everything. All of this. (toil, fear, anxiety; the waiting, the knowing)

And down he goes.

 

 

_Status: Unknown - Location: Unknown_

Zack deflects the viper-quick slash just as swiftly, rattling the knife free from Reno’s shaking wet hand. That freed knife and Cloud’s knees strike the mud at nearly the same stroke the skies really decide to open up. A triple beat of ups and downs.

Locked face-to-face, and then alerted, they react together and too late. Thanks to ignorance and a skid and a clumsy slide, Reno reaches their mutual totem first. The rain pours down; the air crackles; the despair collects. 

Zack knows what it is. He doesn’t want to rush to it either. He has every intention of keeping the knowledge to himself from now on. If he still can. If Cloud knows (and he surely does) he’s already freaking out enough. Any sort of input from Reno would only be counterproductive. Hopefully he doesn’t remember or make a good guess.

“What happened?” Reno croaks, so withered and spent, but all hands on Cloud.

“My… _leg_ …” Cloud answers, pulling Reno’s for sure.

“Your leg?”

Their fight ends. They don’t see it through.

Reno lets his shattered phone rest destroyed and waterlogged in the emptiness, any salvageable parts now (or soon to be) lost. He puts his soul into tending and interrogating a semi-responsive Cloud instead. He goes so far as defying a reeling Zack and his own protesting body to pack the blond up and look for shelter from the drumming rain. Their wounds and hurts they put on hold; their disdain and distrust they put on hold.

“You’re still sticking with the Cloud thing, huh?” Zack asks rhetorically, his mind an uneasy mess and the words jumping out. “I still want to kill you,” he rumbles, every breath an agony.

“Oh, is the feeling mutual, yo…” Reno responds.

“You're not redeemed.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Get over yourself.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Reno sighs, shrugged and shaded, his rosy-red colour all but bled out. He leans and leans, shouldering the weight of Cloud’s slight body over his right shoulder. “You won't be so butthurt when you find out what I have. If I’m kind enough to share them that is. What do you think, Cloud? He been a good boy? I don’t think so personally.”

Cloud does not reply.

“What could you possibly have?” Zack asks, leaning too, their two rucksacks lesser than the weight of the big damn sword on his right.

“A cigarette,” Reno says flatly, too beat for long games.

“You don’t smoke,” Zack disputes, slogging through the thickening mud.

“No, but _you_ do,” Reno explains, following closely.

They reach a cut of washed-out hill lengthy and hanging enough to act as cover. Zack offloads his sword and their gear there. Reno lowers Cloud into his already waiting arms, to his displeasure, but also his obvious relief. Zack’s spine, his shoulders, and his own legs are revolting too. He can’t take much more. He takes himself to the ground after getting Cloud settled and sits with a rain-slicked thump and squish. He won’t be getting up. He’s at 1%.

The rain spits on, rushing and running, rinsing the valley below.

“It’s all for Cloud or revenge,” Zack mutters.

“Why doesn’t this surprise me? He's still struggling to get it...” Reno grumbles under his lacking breath. It’s directed to no one or Cloud tucked low between them.

“What’s to get? You’re pretty shallow.”

“You want that cigarette or not?”

“I don’t think I do. Trying to butter me up.”

“Yeah, maybe I am. Got my brother killed, my fingers snipped, smashed my phone, my face, _and_ called me a fucking _spy_ , but I still want to smooth things over. We gotta move on. Even though you fucked up Cloud, you have his love, yo. You're just about everything I despise… but I’ve changed. I’m a bad person. A bad person with a LOT of regret.”

“Oh, you’ve _changed_ , huh?” Zack patronizes.

“Do you think someone as... _sly_ as me wants to be friends with _you_? I’m selfish and angry… and—” Reno pauses, storm thunder rumbling. “I’ve got _issues_... but I… _We’re_... You know what— _fuck you_. Just take them.” He tosses a still-wrapped pack of smokes and a plastic lighter at Zack’s lap. “Try and smoke it in the rain, I don’t care. I bought those in Junon just before we left to use as leverage against you. I’m done. I’m not a fucking spy. I don’t care about _you_ or _your_ beliefs. I care about this stupid fucker and cleaning my slate. Thanks for laying my brother to rest in such a violent fashion, by the way.” Arm going around his narrow shoulders, he pulls Cloud near, purposely brushing by Zack’s arm. He hisses at the pain it causes, lightning following late and with a sudden far-reaching flash, thunder finishing it off.

“He’ll be fine,” Zack lies, packing away the cigarettes.

“Are you fine, Cloud?” Reno waits just long enough for a response, not smoothing anything over. “No? See. He's NOT fine. He’s just as bad as before. What’s _with_ you? You have a vision? A scary nightmare? All that mako make you a witch?” 

“Wizard.”

“Whatever, man. You’re disturbing either way. And you’re cold.”

“What can I say? I’ve got issues...” Zack admits.

“Don’t know what you see in him...” Reno mutters, petting Cloud’s hair and adding further insult.

Zack smiles dryly, hanging his dripping wet bare head. “I don’t either.”

Reno’s equally wet shoulder ticks twice against him.

Sympathy or a laugh.


	30. Chapter 30

_Status: Ex-bodyguard - Location: Western continent_

A laugh.

He has big issues with letting his guard down around Zack, but he also has bigger issues with something terrible or avoidable happening to Cloud. As it is, Cloud’s head rests slumped against his shoulder. It’s probably the heaviest part of him. His hair is soaked, his features lax and soft under a wet tangle of faded yellow. How he gets more beautiful is a wonder, but he does, and here’s the evidence, the proof, the damning truth: Reno’s smitten. How much more painful would this be if he ever saw him unbroken, well-fed and beaming?

He’s also sure Zack fractured his clavicle. And it was already ailing him from the cocksucker back on the boat. He’s skinned his knuckles down good, every subtle bend and motion causing a sting. Rattled a few more teeth, but everything’s managing to hang on. He’s got cuts crossing and splitting both his eyebrows and slashing over each cheekbone. They sting just as much as his mitts, the result of the sheer force Zack’s punches put out. He doesn’t bruise skin, he splits skin. He also so considerately reopened his busted lip too. Reno feels downright swollen and done, every limb telling him the same story.

He could be concussed too. From earlier. Much earlier. Like, the boat and the head-butt, not just this recent row. He knows he’s hungry and thirsty ( _parched_ ) and aching and empty. He knows the poison sticking to his ribs and the insides of his skull makes his world all the more miserable.

They have Cloud out of the wet at least. His phone can’t say the same.

“What happened to his hand?”

“ _You_ happened to his hand,” Zack rasps.

“No, I didn’t. There’s nothing there.” And that’s the truth. “The bandage is gone. Probably lost it in all the excitement. No wound. Not even a scar, yo. And he’d _have_ one after that. I should know…” Because he’s the one who gave it to him.

Zack has no more valuable input. He goes into his hibernation mode. He sat, he settled, and he hasn’t said much after his depressing, self-deprecating comment and this latest snarky remark. He hasn’t regarded Cloud twice for longer than a glance either, and the kid’s a little more than a little concern. Cloud’s back to his old tricks, and the ex-SOLDIER is stiff in turn, facial bandage crooked, sitting on his hands. He doesn’t look much better than a scarecrow. He never did. They’d look worse if the rain hadn’t rinsed them clean. Reno especially.

Reno sits and shivers and has been doing so for longer than he’d care to admit. He’s been at it since the bar, and a bit before then, because he needed that damn drink. He hasn’t stopped. His every bone aches because of it, and he still wants that drink, that buzz, that warmth; something to ease his stomach. He wants to close his eyes and not contend the need to let go.

He can’t sleep and he can’t keep fighting the way he is. And, most of all, he can’t let Zack show him up, regardless of any aforementioned attempts at goodness. The remaining poison under his skin (both literally and figuratively) is hot and jumping, turning his guts into a discord of knots. He might not be able to rest if he wanted to. He’d toss and turn.

Trying _not_ to do something has never been his strong suit though. He is always one to indulge (to his very doom). It’s no wonder then when Zack doesn’t say a word, he simply prods Reno in the side with an elbow, because he’d nodded off.

It’s stopped raining. The storm has passed. It’s cold and dim out there, and only getting dimmer. Full night is tucking in. The atmosphere is calm and still, hardly moving a breath. He must have been out for several hours then. And, the reason for the nudge, the reason for excitement: Shinra soldiers have caught up. They’re on their hilltop, talking in subdued tones, looking over the valley. Whatever force Vincent sent is right on top of them.

Reno freezes, even though he’s hardly moved. He can pick out their lowered voices and their shifting boots disrupting the earth overhead. As he waits, peering wide-eyed, he witnesses, for just a blink, the undersides of several rifle barrels in contrast against the dusky grey sky. He looks to Cloud, and he’s a sight there beside him, washed-out, tiny, and officially unconscious.

“Carry him,” Reno whispers.

“No shit,” Zack hisses.

“Little less attitude...”

Zack unexpectedly lashes out and punches his shoulder, passing right by Cloud’s blank face. He aggravates Reno's busted collarbone and sends vicious spikes amuck.

Reno struggles to swallow the alarming reaction. His legs kick twice, high-top sneakers digging their heels into caking mud. His empty stomach turns and his head swims, washed down river. He takes Cloud with him as he slides sideways into the mud.

“ _Hey_.” Zack physically jolts them both upright.

“Shhh,” Reno hisses back, annoyed, but fast improving. “ _Shut. It._ ”

The soldiers remain, overlooking the land. If they leave Cloud here under the cliff, they could charge from either side and take the soldiers by surprise. The only snag to that is… well, they don’t know how many are up there or what they’re armed with beyond what he saw for a glance.

Reno can still use his firearms, but he can’t do much else. Zack sounds ready for a fight, go figure, but it’s a toss up. He’s been a guess from day one, and one, well-aimed shot could take either of them out of the picture and make Cloud easy pickings.

“Can _you_ carry him?” Zack whispers.

“You—”

Zack makes to get up, reaching for his sword and everything, but Reno, with his last drag of conviction and strength (and chagrin), pulls him right back down. “Hey, _no_ ,” he growls into his irritatingly still-handsome face, “I got this one. Take care of him.” And he’s up and off instead, into the young night, foregoing any clear headed tactics, succumbing to emotion, giving them an opaque chance at best.

Reno crashes into the valley below to lead off the soldiers, just to steal Zack’s thunder.

And make a point.

 

 

_Status: Unknown - Location: Unknown_

It’s hard to say whether he’s more annoyed or relieved. 

Reno leaves Cloud and their rucksacks all to Zack. The soldiers immediately mark his position in the monotony and call out. With no adequate reply from Reno (but for a few hollers and absurd curses), they squeeze off a few shots, miss, and then quickly follow, leaving Zack and Cloud hidden under the overhanging cliff.

The group is a trigger happy regiment of five or so, armed and armoured. Reno draws them down the slope into the valley and out of sight, yelling all the way. Zack loses track of them long before that. They were a multitude of multi-coloured auras solidified due to their bunching. The number might have been greater.

(... _redemption_ …)

Could be.

But, it could be stupidity. It would have been no less stupid had _he_ done it.

For minutes after, Zack waits with Cloud stationary in his arms. Someone might have stayed behind. Thankfully, after heartbeats on end, nobody seems to have, and he soon comes crawling out, sword and rucksacks sustained, Cloud over his bad shoulder, needing the good one for the use of a weapon. He’s careful to stay low and be quick.

He starts them off again towards the ridge to the northwest and New Corel, his ultimate destination and their next springboard. These level plains now laid out ahead will improve his speed. No more climbing hills, obstructions, or distractions. This will leave Reno out there somewhere northeast in the plains with no cover, and the soldiers.

Cloud moans. He would have had something to say about that, but he doesn’t have the luxury at present. He’d have to agree that getting the injured man out first always takes priority. And that’s exactly what he is. He’s limp against Zack’s whole left side, a reminder of a time long ago and how far they’ve come (and yet, how they’ve stayed the same). Zack can’t stand around all day and wait for Reno, or wait for more soldiers to show up. In hours they could be to Corel, and Reno can just catch up, the cockroach that he is.

The going will be tough, to say the least. He’s legally dead, been in two ragged fights in one day and hasn’t had nearly enough downtime, cigarettes, decent food or a chance to retain it all in between. There’s nothing left in the tank. If he’s got another angry face to throw his sodden fists at the end of this road too, he’s not sure he’ll go through with it. They’ll just have to take a damn number.

Getting Cloud to safety is all he needs here and now. He can do that. He can complete this walk, if not his final, unlikely task (as usual). The rain is gone, the night is cool, the skies are overcast. Nothing will see them moving from afar, but they might hear his labored breathing on the approach. He can’t catch it. He won’t hope to muffle it. Soon, he stops thinking about it.

He’s not busy catching his breath because he’s focusing more on being straight and true. He’s focusing more on being hopeful (tentative) that he won’t stumble and fall. A rock, a dip, a shrub, a root, an animal den—he’d drag his wet boot across it, or step right into it, and that’s him grounded. Gathering his sword, the rucksacks, and Cloud again aren’t the issues. He’d have to gather himself all over again too.

He especially can’t see now that the sun’s gone down. It’s thrice as bad as it would have been normally. He’d have moonlight and the lights from camps or towns in the distance as landmarks, but their subtle glow is not enough. He always had good night vision, but not anymore. The sky bleeds residual, the land barren and blank underneath. Cloud is dim. Zack's exercising his internal compass.

With the sun starting to warm their backs, he gets them to within the highland encampment, a trudging daze keeping him moving forward, ever on and on. The veil bridging subconscious and reality has become gauzy thin. He is thought alone, pure and precise. He is numb, nothing, blank. What reserves he has leads them closer to temporary haven and up the trade road.

There are tents and banners flicking, people murmuring. No more horizontal wind whipping and desolation. He can finally ease his aching, burning legs and his aching, burning lungs. Here, dust and boulders and sheet metal surround them. He knows it, he doesn’t need to see it. He’s back to black, with glimpses of Cloud isolated and chartreuse.

They’ve made it to North Corel, at the base of Mt. Corel, a town relocated and on the edges of death. They’ll find shelter and quiet here, and they’ll fit right in.

“Do you need help?” A sympathetic voice asks, already having found him.

“A bed,” Zack deadpans, ground together. He’s got no time for it.

 

 

It’s the last of their drinking water drained in gulps and then writhing, full-body agony dipped in wicked, woeful torture, topped with oozing, ugly torment. He can feel every ache and split and wound now that he’s at rest, and there doesn’t seem to be an inch of him that doesn’t have a say. Nothing’s been a positive, soft-spoken comment.

He completely forgot to add _being shot at_ to his list. His shoulder, his arm, and his side are reminding him of that misstep now. The giant sword did a swell job of collecting the spray from the Director’s gunblade, but he’s still chewed up, and sporting a busted nose. And then, compounded with everything else (see: the eye thing, the mako, the natural fatigue, the stress, the shattered ego, the paranoia, the terror, the anger, the verbal vomit, the sliced arm, the arduous love, the damn redemption, his parents), Reno had to come along and bruise a couple of his ribs too. Cue up superheated glory. Cue up straining consciousness.

If he could pull in a good breath he’d be able to tell the extent of the damage by the striking announcement, but as it is, he can’t get beyond the shallow gasping. He’ll hyperventilate before crashing from the exhaustion. He’s gotta calm down. He’s gotta warm up.

“You better get up.”

The score changes just like that. It’s the SOLDIER dorms all over again.

“You’re doomed,” Sephiroth insists. “You better get up.”

“Why can’t I sleep longer?” Zack groans.

“Because you’re already in trouble.”

“You sleep until _noon_. That’s so not fair.”

“The Director likes me more than you,” Sephiroth purrs.

“That’s _really_ not fair.”

“Firm but fair.”

Zack laughs a short, humourless laugh.

“You better get up,” Sephiroth repeats.

And just as suddenly... he’s back. The present crashes in, and to his surprise, the reality has already improved. He knows it thanks to the golden glimmer above him, showing like it should. He knows it because he’s not such a desperate case crawling from the depths of oblivion. The mako in his system is helping him heal. It’s probably helped him stay afloat. It’s probably been helping him stay awake too. It certainly helps him translate the world around him.

“Are you okay?” Zack opts, victim again to his own adoration.

“No, no, no… I’m not. You _know_ I’m not,” Cloud moans.

Zack bolts upright, headrush dizzy.

Cloud might be golden again, pure and even, lovely warm and rain-most, but he’s tortured. “You should have left me in the snow,” he mumbles. “And… where’s Reno?”

“Don’t give me that,” Zack retorts carefully, voice thick, muscles stiff. “Reno... ran off.”

“No, I’m serious,” Cloud stresses, not having lifted his hanging head. “You would have been better off never meeting me. You’d still… have your... I never would have... Don’t act like everything’s... _fine_. I know you’re not _fine_. I know I’m not _fine_. Stop trying to make me feel better… What do you mean... he _ran off_?”

“What else am I supposed to do? I can’t watch you suffer. And none of that’s true,” Zack argues. The pain and bitter fatigue has dulled. He’s just plain cold to the fracturing core. “Soldiers caught up. He got it into his head to be the hero. He _ran off_.”

“You’re supposed to tell me the _truth_.”

“You know the _truth_ ,” Zack assures. “It’s not pretty. It’s downright shitty. ”

“I’ve got to... get it out then,” Cloud exclaims.

“What?”

“My—” He’s reaching for his head.

“No, nope. That’s not an option,” Zack states, pulling Cloud’s hand down and away from that imposter eye. It's his left hand, the one he used to deflect Reno's knife. The bandage is gone. It would have healed on its own by now, but Zack knows better, because it healed the night he got it. It healed too soon. He wishes he could ignore the truth. Things have been bad enough.

“It’s crossed your mind though, hasn’t it?”

“It’s too risky.”

“I lost it once already.”

“That was an _accident_.”

“Do it for me,” Cloud demands.

Zack balks, gripping his chilled hand, feeling his own blood rush hot. All his healing aches and hurts moan alive and roll over. “I... can’t do that.”

“Take my eye or... I find my own way.”

“It’s too—”

“I trust you.”

“For _fuck’s sake_ , Cloud,” Zack growls. “I couldn’t live with myself.”

But, he might not have much longer anyway.

That quiets Cloud at least.

They’re side-by-side, sharing a single bedroll in what sounds like a fabric tent. It’s hardly a two-person accommodation. Zack’s nearly on top of his sword and half on Cloud. Cloud’s mostly on the rucksacks and half on Zack. The air is easily moving around them, moist and frigid. Conversation might not be the wisest of things to do here. He can hear folks moving and muttering not far off. The mountain clearing is carved into rock, the shape amplifies noise.

He doesn’t remember much from getting here, to be honest. He doesn’t feel much either, but he can almost take a breath through his nose. He took them from their hasty storm shelter and to their present location (a distance he’s unsure of, but no stroll) in a blur. He arrived tapped out and then slept for an hour, or several, or a fortnight. He really can’t say. He’d have to ask.

“I can’t go on like this…” Cloud groans.

Zack only has to lean and he’s warming close, comforting close.

“I could… _smell_ him,” Cloud admits, shaking his head.

Zack releases his hand to fold Cloud into his arms, flattening him to his chest.

“I could _hear_ him,” Cloud moans.

“We’ll figure this out,” Zack assures, squeezing him once rather hard and then maintaining the pressure and presence. “Just hang in there. You’re solid. You’re golden. And I really mean that, Cloud. You’re _golden_.” 

“You…” Cloud tries, only to trail off, either swallowing another protest or having no case.

“I’m right here. What could be wrong?” Zack leans back just enough. He has the audacity to smile his easy half-smile, convincing no one of the lie.

The closeness, and the stillness, and the absence of Reno quickly becomes overbearing. Words aren't working. Zack can think of no better way to calm him, or console him, or revive him, so he starts rubbing his back. His jacket is damp, his dragon spine prominent through it. He smells so faintly of earthy sand and wood chips. He smells like a drenched beach fire. On Zack rubs, both hands to it, massaging, caressing. He’s lost in it.

Cloud is still, and then he’s a burst of movement, maneuvering to undo Zack’s jacket, sure and deliberate. He releases every button with a jerking snap, hands quivering, reaching inside for the potential warmth and nakedness contained therein. The embrace is shocking cold at first—Cloud’s digits, palms and jacket sleeves frozen—but then it’s intoxicating, warming, and isn’t going to cut it.

Zack crushes him into his embrace, but not nearly close enough.

It’s unavoidable by then. They’re onto each other, into each other, palms, fingers and nails. They’ve been wanting for the release and needing for the comfort well before all this. He’s gotten just the one hand up and under Cloud’s jacket and t-shirt as it is, but the stunning bare flesh, Cloud’s too-smooth skin underneath, it's so very warm and receptive and perfect, and it’s all Zack knows, and all he ever wants to know. His cold hand comes back to life. The one left outside, numb and gripping, and still rubbing, twitches and aches to join. 

Cloud’s hands glide over Zack’s belly and slide up Zack’s sides to slink around and climb his spine. They reach as high as they can and drift back down to ghost hipbones and slowly slide up spine again. They’re rhythmic, holistic, and buzzing flesh alight.

Zack arches and finally gets his forsaken hand inside Cloud’s constrictive layers. The oncoming flood of heat and want is all consuming. He groans in delight, enjoying the sensation of flesh on flesh, and the sensation of freedom, distraction and uncensored bodily warmth.

Cloud reacts just as outwardly, sucking in a gasp and lifting his head at the rush of cold, moist breath hotly gusting into Zack’s face. His lips are parted, cheeks flushed. He’s pure white-gold, molten, pliable, and oh-so weighty in his arms.

They’d throw sparks, the contact is electric, reactive, instantaneous. Zack takes those parted lips, forceful, and doesn’t give them back, greedy. Cloud rises to meet him, opening his mouth and tilting his head without a moment’s hesitation, allowing him inside, slick and hot and sweet. Zack thoroughly accepts and thoroughly licks the inside of that mouth. They battle and spar, tongues pushing and gliding (a quick lick here, a reaching lap there), and then Zack’s pulling back.

“Do ya taste him or me?” he pants, breathless.

Cloud merely moans, again accepting his invading tongue.

Zack savors every slide, slither and slip, but he needs to do something about their damn layers. He wants to feel him, he _needs_ to feel him, bared, as he was intended.

Without disengaging their mouths just yet, he unzips Cloud’s jacket and tugs the garment off one sleeve at a time. He discards his own jacket next, already undone. They finally do stop, reluctantly parting for Cloud to take care of his last barrier, that thin shirt, but they’re quickly reconnected, twice as volatile, thrice as hungry, skin on skin, mouth to mouth.

In the vacuum and the heat and the want, Cloud moans. He moans and he groans into Zack’s gasping mouth, “ _I love you_.” Of all the times Zack has said it... this is the first time it’s been returned. _I love you_. It singes in like a brand. _I love you_. And he’ll have it to his dying day.

“I love you more,” he rumbles back, choosing then to bring Cloud into his lap.

Their hips come together, wonderful, wracking friction ignites. They both tense full body, gripping wherever their hold lands. Cloud’s moans deepen, proving breathy, pitiful, less intelligible and destructively addictive. Zack is all too eager to hear more, and all too willing to try as many times (in as many different ways) it might take to elicit them, one after the other, as unique as snowflakes.

He rocks and rubs their confined erections together, now chewing and nipping Cloud’s swollen lips, now gusting back his own moans. He soon lacks the patience. He soon wants more. He reaches for the waistband of Cloud’s rain-damp sweatpants to relieve him, throbbing and full. 

Zack is positive of good results.

Always the opportunist though, and befouler of good results, Reno busts in— _hey, motherfu_ —oh.

He immediately goes for their rucksacks, no longer trapped under Cloud, like he was probably planning to even if he hadn’t interrupted (as usual). He said he bought cigarettes in Junon, but he also must have bought a bottle of booze.

Zack hears the seal break and then Reno’s slugging down what could be half of it right there, cursing everyone (especially Shinra and Zack) and all the miles in between.

“Yeah, my bad. Don’t mind me. Carry on,” he urges after a dramatic sighing breath. His tone is delayed and hopeful. He takes another less gutsy gulp and swallows none too quietly. Crouched there at the pulled tent flap, bronzed and unmoving, he’s getting more than an adequate view.

Maybe having been (BEING) a soldier helps, but Zack is willing to continue.

“I really do hate you though,” Reno dares to add, drained and indignant, already sounding loaded. “You get fame, you get comfort, you get _Cloud_... What do I get? Where the hell is the hand on my dick? I don’t even get a _welcome back_. Fuck you. I just ran my ass off, dodged death and a bullet, _many_ of them, for _you_... and here you are fondling your trophy—no offense, Cloud—firm but fair, _right_ -handed, _without_ me.”

“Shut up,” Cloud groans. “If only... you’d just... _shut up_.” Surprisingly, and to everyone’s immediate benefit, Cloud bucks his hips right up from Zack’s lap and into Zack’s loose and then firm hand, the movement salacious, lurid and drawn out. He’s willing to continue too. He’s beyond the point of caring.

“Oh, shit,” Reno breathes.

Zack flushes, and then he’s carrying on as usual, because Cloud is all he really sees. He’s bathing in his light. He’s a creature mesmerized. He’s truly screwed. He returns a lurid motion for a lurid motion and spits into his hand, re-palming Cloud to roll down his solid inches, giving him a good squeeze right to the curly base.

Detail and give, heat and slide. Zack maps him out, working his fist up and down and back up again to test the blood-filled head with a thumb. He finds him very responsive and takes in his every move and breath and shudder. Cloud hisses and moans, paws and grabs. He rocks those trembling hips up and up, searching, needing, desolate.

Zack bowls him over and climbs atop, deja vu. He muffles him with his tongue, teeth clicking and striking, nipping and biting; tongues coiling and colliding. He clumsily and hurriedly pulls down his own sweatpants just enough to free himself, just as needing and desolate. They’re now laid out over the thin bedroll, wind flapping their tent, people and Reno all around, but their breathing is louder and the task more important.

Sometime before Zack gets serious and somewhere after he proves his point, Reno leaves on his own anyway. Zack looked up and over, feeling rather proud and protective (ravenous and panting), and saw no bleached-bronze spectre at their feet, crouched and watching.

To be honest, to be _fair_ , he would have fucked Cloud right there in front of Reno all the same, out of spite and longing and necessity, and felt no less involved. He’s won either way, but he is right about Cloud being a trophy. Zack can’t ever deny that. It doesn’t sound as romantic as it should either. He’s selfish with the best of them. And he’s beyond his point of control.

Zack helps line them up and then he’s just bracing, awash in the result, trying his best not to take a piece out of Cloud’s lower lip. Their cocks slide, Cloud’s slick but drying. It’s overwhelming and bright, blinding for a whole new reason. Cloud’s so vivid he’s painful, but the pleasure is all Zack truly knows.

He wants to feel Cloud around him. He wants to feel that light. He wants to give him freedom. He wants to finally wipe away the last memories of Sephiroth.

It might not be the nicest of places, or the best of times, but it’s happening. They’re both crashing towards greatness and release together.

He’s not sure Cloud is ready for him, but Zack’s not sure he could readily stop. It would take a colossal force, and much cursing, and thrashing at the air. He takes a quick lick at his fingers all the same, tongue dry from the gasping, and the lack of adequate hydration, and he wets himself around the head as best he can. He wants for a second try though. This won’t cut it. He takes a chance and goes so far as offering his palm to Cloud for assistance.

Getting the idea, Cloud directs Zack’s hand to his mouth and licks, palm to fingertips, tongue wet and hot as it goes. He takes three of those fingers into his mouth, sucking just enough, flicking and testing with his tongue. Zack carefully but quickly retracts the fingers and shoves the hand back between them, collecting himself, now slippery and ailing.

He groans and nips and mouths Cloud’s throat. He’s still not quite as slick as he would want, for Cloud’s sake, but he can’t do much about it, and he can’t wait. He can’t. They’ll have to do with the saliva and pre-ejaculate, because Zack’s off, pressing forward, biting down on sleek throat, aiming to impale Cloud as he lies underneath him.

Cloud grips Zack’s biceps in return, bracing for impact. He’s spread his legs on impulse, giving Zack the room and the freedom of movement. Air is getting hard to come by, control is harder, and Zack’s the hardest. The give is there, but he doesn’t want to hurt him. He pushes forward and then eases, repeating the process, gradually digging deeper. He’s rumbling a groan as he goes, losing track of Cloud’s compliance. He’s not in doubt of it. He just has to listen to him.

Cloud’s all worked up, a stream of gusty, audible affirmation and writhing. He’s pushing up into every lunge Zack offers, urging him on, urging him through, urging him inside. They’re almost there, almost breached, the stretch strenuous business.

Zack sweats and gasps and bites, cold no more. He is need, messy and hungry. He needs more air and more leverage and depth and patience and lubrication and to do this twice a day everyday, for the rest of his days. And that’s a fact. No exceptions.

He finds Cloud’s hips and holds steadily with both hands, fingernails nipping, anchoring, bolstering. He has the leverage, he has the vision, and he drives ahead, Cloud swallowing up several inches in sudden, whimpering fashion. His fingers arrive on Zack’s back to claw and dig.

Zack has to calm himself from raging. They’re only halfway, they’ve only just begun, and he wants to draw out and slam back in, again and again and again, until nothing is left of them but worn out, panting bodies, but he shouldn’t. Not yet.

He paces himself. He milks the moment, enjoying the warmth, and the squeeze, and the tremble. He listens to Cloud’s breath, his rhythm, his heartbeat, and then his impatience. Here he goes pleading, whispering, _please, please, please_.

So, lacking the fortitude, Zack complies.

And he thought he was loud before. Everyone in Corel, and Costa del Sol, and maybe even as far as Midgar, can hear Cloud now. He’s a wonderful, twisting brilliant yellow and white. He’s a desperate, thinning wail and gasp; a glowing tongue and gullet. He’s blood pumping liquid fast through filigree veins. He’s a pulsing and a drum beat, and he’s crying out Zack’s blessing every time he eases out and pushes back home to sit more fully and drink more deeply.

He is set on fucking Cloud proper, and Cloud’s letting everyone know. It’s a praise, a glory, a reward. He’s chanting, praying, gusting it out, and it’s making continuing for very long very difficult. Zack’s depletion should only help the situation, but his investment, his devotion, that’s the real factor. He can’t filter Cloud on any level, so he won’t last.

Zack bucks and indulges. He watches his cock reappear and then slip back down, so close to the root, so close to taking him entirely. His personal glow is pale sky blue against Cloud’s gold, for what it is. He focuses on that contrast, and the slide, the ease, the trigger and reaction. Cloud hitches and then breathes, moaning at the recess, whimpering on the advance. He takes it all like a blade trying to kill him. He takes every stroke.

Zack’s foundation is crumbling. He has to slow and corral himself. He works at working down the pace. It will allow them both time to catch their wind, and allow him to hang on that much longer. It’s just as dangerous though. If not more. He’s just as sensitized, he’s just as wanting.

He draws back, slow and grueling, agonizing, and waits just there at the gates, poised for re-entry. It helps. At first. The waiting is the worst and the best. Cloud gasps and pants and whines from below, wanting relief and friction and a filling. He widens those legs and tilts up. He’s seconds away from an avalanche of begging and begging and.

Zack drills forward as deeply as he can take him, at last. Cloud’s answer is loudest of all. This is it. There is no more control. Zack grunts and groans and latches on, compressing flesh, wanting to cause a bruise, a mark, a disruption (or many). He’s pumping and churning, climbing the heights, barreling towards excellence while Cloud arches and howls at the sky.

He takes him over and over in rapid succession, thumping out his frenzy. Cloud accepts him whole and rises to meet him still, their hips crashing in with real force. The saliva is more than enough, the slide is immeasurable, the friction intense. Ready to break, they speed towards the end with every deep stroke and desperate cry.

“Oh, harder, _harder_ ,” Cloud moans.

“Oh,” Zack breathes back, an epiphany. He takes Cloud’s straining cock in a sweat-slick hand. He’s going to beat him to the punch anyway. “Oh, fuck,” he hisses, stricken, sucker punch, bucking several brutal bucks more and one last reaching thrust, tightly mirroring the motion with his hand gripped around Cloud. He comes hard and violent, all at once, sunken fully inside.

Cloud follows, shouting his name, fingers digging like daggers.

Ascending into the shuddering fits of the moment, Zack drops his heavy head onto Cloud’s shoulder, defeated and drained. They both breath, they both ride it out, and they both have nothing left by the end. Zack struggles to resurrect the embrace from before, their present position making it somewhat difficult. He’s slumped over Cloud and cock-deep.

Their temples press. Zack takes a deep breath and slowly exhales, kissing the nape of Cloud’s neck. Cloud weakly moans his approval, capable of little else.

 

 

When they’re done, task over, clean up and smooth over taken care of and out of the way, Reno rejoins them too soon after. It’s almost like having a child...

He probably sat outside the tent and glared down anyone stupid enough to look too long or stray too closely. He might have waited for conversation or movement from inside afterward and then made his own move. His timing was spot on for once. More evidence against him. He is styled for interruption, deception and insidiously loyal behaviour.

Now they’re all three cramped inside the small tent, limbs touching, warmth transferring, together again (Cloud situated on the inside, Reno and Zack bordering the outside), some kind of unhappily-happy trio reunited, and more or less safe.

“It smells like sex in here,” Reno mutters, starting off strong.

Cloud has nothing to say.

Zack struggles to stay his tongue and his torrential tire.

“Was it everything you hoped for?” Reno asks Cloud.

“Leave him alone,” Zack counters, already bristling.

“ _I_ should leave him alone?” Reno bursts out. “He comes back from his stupor and the _first_ thing you think to do… is fuck him? That sounds more like _me_ or... _Seph_ , man. What happened? Oh, wait. I think I know... You _were_ perfect. You never went through a trial by fire. Everything you had was thrown at you because you were wonderful and strong. You have no value now. Stop struggling to justify yourself. Stop being the hero. Stop being the failure. Just, _stop_.”

“Don’t _ever_ compare me to _him_. And… _what_? No trial by fire, huh?”

“Growing up, man. You got it easy."

“You're any better? Struggling to honour dead words? Jumping into shit? Troubled childhood. Daddy issues. Drinking issues. Who knows what else? You take it out on everyone around you. Stop dragging us down. And stop holding me accountable for circumstance.”

“Nice. A real sob story…”

“You'll live…”

“Are you… _consoling_ me?”

“Reno…”

“No, this is big, yo. It’s a breakthrough. Are you gonna fuck me when I'm near death too? While I'm dazed and recovering and weak? I gotta tell you… I'd probably enjoy it. I don't whimper quite as nicely as our boy Cloud here does, but I wouldn't disappoint. Just hope you last longer.”

Cloud clears his throat and shifts, uncomfortable.

“If it would shut you up,” Zack offers dryly.

“You'd fuck me quiet?” Reno pushes, leaning over Cloud.

“I'd fuck you into a coma,” Zack growls, shoving him back.

“ _Damn_ … promises, promises…”

“Can we talk about something else?” Cloud asks.

“No,” Reno answers, firm and turning serious. “I wanna know why _he_ thinks it's okay to take advantage of you at your weakest, but _I_ can't even _flirt_.”

Cloud sighs, exasperated.

“Seriously,” Reno says. “That's not _fair_.”

“Life's not fair,” Zack comments.

“And neither are you, ironically,” Reno sighs. He twists, stretches out, and groans before saying the next statement, going back to business and almost humouring Cloud. “I led those jerks off, by the way. Should be good for a few. Probably still circling that clearing. Bunch of idiots.”

“Congratulations,” Zack offers.

“Are we good to go then? Shouldn’t we keep moving? Gotta get back to mommy? Or should we just sit around in the afterglow a little longer? Oh, wait. Is it my turn now? Scoot over.”

“We need to rest,” Cloud says.

“Oh, do we? A little sleepy after all the activity? I just ran for _miles_. I haven’t slept. I’m ready to go. Think I sweat out all that poison… and then some. Won’t be giving anyone a stomach ache with cross contamination. Have we got water? Oh. Want a drink?” He offers his bottle.

“Get him out of here,” Zack grits.

If he tried, verbal or physical, he wouldn’t be terribly kind, and Reno would react as volatile as possible just to counter him. It’s not weakness or boiling rage that makes Zack snap and use the alpha card, it’s exhaustion and the opportunity to make things as painless as possible. He can come back when Zack’s not irritated and Reno’s not rambling borderline drunk.

Cloud honours the words, point taken ( _or things will get ugly_ ), and twists to nudge Reno.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa…” Reno protests, reacting but not to leave. “ _Is_ it my turn?”

“Get _out_ ,” Cloud demands.

“Not unless you’re coming,” Reno bargains, drawing away from his herding to scoot for the exit but stalling to carry on his lame point. “With me. _Out here_. Already did the oth—”

Cloud shoves him hard enough with his boot to knock Reno backwards out the tent flap.

“Oh, getting pushy,” Reno chides from outside, removing the rest of himself at last.

“I’ll be back,” Cloud informs Zack, not waiting for a reply and leaving all too soon.

And so Zack is left alone, and that’s always a bad idea. But, it’s perfect for a cigarette.


	31. Chapter 31

_Status: Ex-bodyguard - Location: North Corel_

Cloud follows him outside, leaving Zack to fret or hibernate inside the tent. He moves like he hasn’t had a good stretch in weeks. He’s stiff and brittle, sweat stained and mud-caked. He’s thin and leaning, and mostly tangled hair and heavy hanging clothing. His prolonged silence and guarded expression just adds more to Reno's mountainous guilt and displeasure. At least he’s conscious, and aware, and looking him in the eye.

“I need to talk to you,” he says at last. “Somewhere quiet.”

It's night again. People move here and there. Fires burns, insects buzz, the world is going on as it was. Reno is dragging and feeling it to the marrow (and the booze in his guts, and the wear in his skin, and his very soul). The lights stream and pull, every last one. He ran all night. And then he ran all morning. And then he ran all night. He’s starting to get a headache. He’s starting to slouch and lean as much as Cloud.

They walk a ways from the settlement for their privacy in slow silence. Once far enough along the trade road, but still warm in the glow of camp, Reno stops, sways, and chirps, “What’s up?”

Cloud turns to him, and his expression has grown worse. “Where were you?

That’s a good start. He can work with that. This might not be so bad. “We were followed. I led them off. No worries.” But, he should have known better.

“I need a favour, Reno… I’ll let you…” Cloud breaks and drifts, rubbing his wrists and small hands together, avoiding eye contact. His face is half-lit and now turns, making that bad expression something dark, scary and unlikable. Cloud’s working something out and up, and it’s heavy. “You can…” but, he stops entirely. His hand finds the zipper pull on his track jacket.

“Let’s hear it,” Reno urges, not really sure he does.

“After… After that night…” Cloud waits on this, eyes skimming over Reno, fingers twisting that zipper pull at his throat. He seems to be making sure he’s following him, and Reno is, confirming it with a slight nod. “I can’t remember a lot… It’s foggy and confusing… and makes my head hurt... but, I... remember… a few things and some details... It’s like... someone else’s memories…”

Reno folds his arms, wincing at his mouthy abused shoulder.

“There was a hallway… You were covered in blood… Everything was... _red_ … We had to get away… away from, _from_ …” Cloud looks down, his eyes grown distant, hair stiff and unmoving, but he continues. He releases the puller, gesturing with that hand. “I remember… a room… A _different_ room… later on... I remember… your face. And your _worry_.” He looks up to him now, new resolve surfaced. “You always looked _worried_. You’d talk to me and frown and _worry_. I don’t know what you ever said... but, you _were_ there. And you didn’t have to be.”

Reno shifts (one foot, two foot), teal high-tops now clay brown and squishing.

“Because of that… I… _trust_ you, Reno. And I… _need_ you...”

“Name it,” Reno blurts, dropping his arms, very much aware he’s played off his words to Zack.

“You can _fuck me_... if you... cut out my eye.”

 _You have to be kidding_ … 

“ _What?_ ” Reno squawks on reflex. He has nothing for a moment, dragging and raking the concept over a few times. He’s unable to censor himself by then, the questions too many. “What the _fuck_ is that? I thought it was your _leg_ …” He points to it, accusatory, and then to the tent up the hill. “Did Zack get you on this idea? He said something similar but then he dropped it... What’s with all the self mutilation? Do I need to call you guys a therapist? And while we’re at it, what’s with your damn _hand_? There’s no scar.”

Cloud answers, quiet and measured, “Yes... and no… My hand healed that _day_... _He’s_ … responsible. He’s… not done with me.”

“Bullshit. So... it _is_ your leg?”

“It is _too_.”

“Am I chopping that off also?”

“ _No_.”

“Can I... take the eye… _after_ I fuck you?”

“It… doesn't matter. “

“It kinda _does_ …” Reno trails off, panicked, looking away, adjusting his sleeves, scuffing his high-tops. In reality, under the surface, he’s grasping for straws, for anything, for some sanity and sense. “Lover boy won’t do it... I’m guessing? He just wanted the quickie?”

“No… He...”

“So... I'm your second choice, of course.”

“Please... _Reno_... You don’t understand. I… I can _feel_ him in there. I can… _hear_ his voice, smell him, _taste_ him. He’s in my head. This eye… it’s a lie, it’s a _fake_. I lost it when we crashed. He… he _gave_ it back and healed my leg… And he… got _inside_ me. He's going to come back. He's going to take over! I can't win. I’m sick! Do something before I go crazy!”

“Whoa. You’re kinda scaring me, man…” Reno admits, waving his hands at him as if to cool him off. “How do you know... _that_ will work anyway? That’s... You're just tapped out and tired. You really, _really_ need to just relax, man. Just relax.” He steps to touch his arm, giving him some kind of anchor and comfort. “You do realize... beyond the blood and the tears and the healing... that you’re asking me to kill myself—because Zack’s going to _flip out_ , to say the least—for the sweetest ass I'll never have?”

“Maybe he won’t. And… maybe I’ll heal quickly.” 

“You… _Oh_ , this is cruel. You wouldn't have had to finish that statement months ago and I'd have already been inside you, man… Oh, my past self. But... I _can't_ do it, yo. I…” He has to take a beat (ready to admit it as much allowed to himself as to Cloud). He puts both hands on Cloud’s arms, holding him steady, shaking him for emphasis. “I _respect_ you, Cloud. It's... not gonna happen. You’re not getting that outta me. Even if… I kinda dig that sorta thing… just not _quite_ to _that_ level... But, besides, your eye is _fine_. Nothing looks wrong.”

“I look fine to you?”

“You look more than fine to me, yo. From day one,” Reno mutters, glance sliding over the top of his blond head to look back up to the camp and their shabby tent near its entrance. Zack is there, and all his fury and power and defunct heroism, probably smug and smoking.

“You sound like Zack...” Cloud mumbles, speaking of the devil.

“Fuck off. This is serious.”

“Then do it. Help me. Fuck me,” Cloud presses, stepping closer, collecting his gaze.

“Weren't you _just_ getting pounded?” Reno inquires, almost scathing, but he doesn’t turn away, and he doesn’t step back. He doesn’t listen to his good sense, or the Vegas raving in his head, or his turning guts. He gets himself into so much more trouble, as usual, and utters, “Say it again.” He was already a little more than punchy, now he’s getting hard.

Cloud swallows and repeats, low and terrible, feline eyes unblinking, “Fuck me.”

“No,” Reno protests, waving a hand. “Say it like before. Like you might actually mean it.”

Cloud sidles close, layering in, looking up, and breathes, gusting it good, “ _Fuck me_ , Reno.”

Reno has no sarcastic answer, or time to think and catch himself, he leans and devours Cloud’s face, their teeth clicking. _Mmm_ , he rumbles into his opening mouth, licking and lavishing, tasting all of him, and maybe a little bit of Zack too. That only goads and stokes the fire though. He has to pull back before things get too far. And they already have.

Sucking Cloud’s tongue from his mouth, Reno releases it with a slip and a pop as his farewell. He's left holding Cloud by his lovely face, leaned in, their crotches nearly pressed, their breath tangled, moist and heated. He sighs and he firms, careful not to look at what he’s left behind. Cloud’s swollen wet lips; his long, angled throat; the evidence of his beautiful collarbone. He’s careful not to note those melting blue flame eyes either. “Still not doing it,” Reno rasps.

He knows Cloud's expression melts too. It becomes betrayal, suffering, anger. Reno's seen him annoyed. He's seen him tired, excited, tormented.

He's looking at him now and seeing something he'd rather like to forget: a kaleidoscope of pure anguish to pure rage in a half blink. Hints of the Midgar badlands.

Cloud changes gears and reaches behind Reno, under his hoodie, eyes alight. Reno only takes it as more posturing and pushing, totally missing the actuality, and the chance to stop it. The kid's reaching for his brother's butterfly knife. Cloud knows where it is. He's seen him pull it out plenty of times, and he even helped him look for it back in the bar. Now he's ripping it from Reno's back pocket, shoving Reno clear, and high tailing it down the rest of the trade road. He's running in the opposite direction of camp, and Zack, and any good hope, or help, or good sense. He's got a knife, a plan, and a skull full of chaos (and maybe something extra).

“Cloud!” Reno shouts.

 _Oh, shit_. 

“The FUCK!?”

 

 

_Status: Unknown - Location: outside North Corel_

He’s sure he’s got to do this.

Cloud’s no help to either of them the way he is, Sephiroth filling his head. The monster will eventually power through and he’ll radiate out. The next attack of sanity will be Cloud’s last. He’ll be burned away like fumes and filled instead with an imposter. He won’t know himself. He won’t know what he might do. He’ll know defeat and shame and fear. If he did anything to Zack again. Or to Reno… He’s got to do this. His eye is throbbing. His head is aching.

This is how it’s going to be. They can’t do it for him. And they won’t, because they don’t really love him and they don’t really care. They just want him. Like Sephiroth wanted him. And had him. Like Zack wanted him. And had him. They want to live and thrive, eat and drink, fuck and sleep. They’re only out for themselves. At least… that’s what he’s hearing. That’s what he’s telling himself. That’s what could be true and could be false. He’s just fighting to understand.

Zack was different, wasn’t he? Zack _is_ different. That’s love? Is that really love? He told him, and Cloud told him back, finally, so eagerly, so positive, but. He’s still not sure. He can’t be. He can’t be sure what might be Sephiroth trying to trick him, and what could possibly be himself anymore. He can’t trust anything.

... _I'm going to do to you what he so badly wants to_...

... _The only reason he bothers with you at all_ …

“Cloud! Stop!”

And now Reno’s chasing him, because he wants him too. His longer legs and the downward slope are going to help him catch up. He’ll overpower him, remove the knife, fuck him, do what everyone else has ever wanted to do to him, down on his knees in the grass and the soil, and then leave him to suffer alone with Sephiroth as his only cushion.

“Go back!” Cloud shouts. “Go away!”

“Go away!?” Reno roars. 

... _I'd rather you twist and suffer at my discretion_...

They sprint and dash, following the unpaved and downgrading trade route to the darkened valley below. They meet the low land and grassy fields in seconds. This is where Cloud slows down and Reno will catch up. He pushes on despite, lungs burning now, hardly remembering how he figured this would end in the first place.

Even if he does get away and find his opportunity, he’ll have to figure out how to proceed. Is he going to stand in a prairie and dig his eye out under the moonlight?

“Give me my fucking knife!”

Reno closes the gap and pounces, tackling Cloud by just the legs, but it’s enough. They both go down sprawling, knife sustained and held high, away from reach. They roll and tussle, grass flying, moisture wetting, speckling. Cloud yells and howls, wriggling and rolling. Reno grunts and crawls and fights for his arm, then his wrist, and now his closed fist, the closed knife. 

“Stop! Let me do it! Please! He’s there! He’s there!” Cloud pleads.

Reno achieves his knife and fumbles to tuck it away. He is left mounted atop Cloud, holding him fast, the both of them unarmed. “He's not!” he yells down into his flushed face. “He's… he's—” but Reno can’t answer. He can’t confirm anything. He never saw anything. He was fried out.

Cloud crumbles beneath him. He gives up, backs off and drops his head and arms loose into the wet grass. They’ve been here before, slumped and reeling, confused and cracking.

“What am I, Reno?”

“You’re Cloud Strife. Your decision making skills are compromised.”

... _You’re stronger than anyone gives you credit for_...

Cloud seizes and sobs. He shudders and mewls and whines while Reno sits on his chest. He doesn’t care what it might sound or look like. His stomach starts to ache from it. His head, his chest, his shoulders. His back is wet and cold in the muck. His resolve is fantasy.

“I said _relax_ , not fall apart…” Reno mutters, climbing off.

Cloud doesn’t acknowledge his extended hand at first. He can’t. He’s staring through it, through him, from below, muddy and hollow, wracked and withering. But, he does take it, eventually, after Reno shows no sign of removing it, or even changing his stern expression. He helps him sit upright and then he’s going to help himself, making to pick Cloud up from the damp ground.

“No,” Cloud protests, watery.

“Alright,” Reno confirms, relenting to some degree (to a Reno degree). He doesn’t pick him up, but he does yank Cloud into a sudden hold, and then into his lap, putting himself down in the damp instead. He hangs close, like a bad thought; a solid body and a stubborn warmth. “It’s just you and me,” he assures, not knowing the near fatal sting he causes.

... _There is no one above me in the chain of command. It’s just you and me_ …

... _You're all mine, not a soul to help you_ …

Cloud whimpers, breath hitching on the retake. He’s spiralling. He’s lost.

“It’s _alright_. It’s okay, shit,” Reno soothes. “Come on, man.” He’s rubbing his back, his neck, his shoulder blades. He’s doing his best. This is love again, isn’t it?

Reno finds his spine and traces it to bring him to the base of Cloud’s bare neck, pressing there, just adding the suggestion, soon easing Cloud’s head to his chest to dry his tears on his hoodie.

He holds him like that for a time, at the start of the passage to Corel, out in the open, in the dark, in the grass, in the mud, in the elements, in too damn deep and all coiled up. And Cloud just cries and he moans, like a newborn, like a mad person, like he won’t ever again. He lets it out, he _pours_ it out, and Reno’s there to absorb it. He holds that palm to the back of his neck and he soothes with the other, firm and constant.

Cloud slows his madness, and then he gulps, and he swallows and he hitches his breath. Soon, he can breathe evenly. He’s not quaking, just shaking, cold and spent. So terribly spent. 

“Better now?” Reno asks, as gently as he’s ever been.

It twists Cloud’s already aching guts. “He’s…” he croaks, voice in shambles.

“He’s NOT _here_ ,” Reno barks, shaking him. “ _We’re_ here. _I’m_ here. _Zack’s_ here. It’s all good. Well… It’s not _all_ good, but you know what I mean.” He sighs. “Things could certainly get better. There’s definitely room for improvement...”

Cloud hangs on that, quiet, sniffing and deeply breathing. He’s already struggling to keep his eyes open. He hasn’t _not_ been exhausted once since waking up in the badlands. He could sleep for years and he would never heal this tire away. He can’t sleep _him_ out of his system. He keeps finding himself in Reno’s arms too, and more recently, he’s finding he’s okay with that.

 

 

_Status: Ex-bodyguard - Location: outside North Corel_

“You gonna talk to me now? Can we clear some of this shit up? _Please?_ ”

Cloud maintains his silence and sniffling and shaking, stalwart in his anguish.

“What’s going on? What’s with your sudden freak out? What’s with... you and Zack? Is there… you know… a _problem_? I can take care of problems… That’s my bag.”

Cloud shrugs, exhaling a long breath. “No,” he answers, shivering.

“ _Bullshit_. I call bullshit. You’ve been nothing but awful since we dragged him to Junon, and worse when he woke up. Not that being a vegetable is an improvement… But, you’ve been in _pain_. I’ve seen it. I _can_ see it. You don’t hide _anything_ well, man. And now you’re asking me to _maim_ you over his... _idea_. I don’t know what you want to call it, but it’s fucking crazy. I don’t know a lot about you, but I _do_ know you’re tough. And you’re smarter than this.”

“I’m not—”

“ _I’m_ not _finished_ ,” Reno growls. “I know Zack’s—”

“It’s _not_ his _fault_ ,” Cloud insists.

“Can I _finish?_ ” Reno snaps. “You’re in _shock_ , Cloud. They call it PTSD where I come from. I can’t blame you. What you went through… no one should have to. And it’s… gonna stick around. I ain’t gonna lie. But, it’s gonna get better too. After time. A lot of it. Probably. Just hang with it. Hang with _me_. Because he sure as shit ain’t helpin’ any.”

“I…” Cloud starts. “I don’t…” But, he has nothing left.

“I’m…” Now Reno’s having the trouble. He shifts and readjusts underneath him. His rear is soaked through. “I’m not a good person. I have a lot of regret. And… one of the biggest regrets…” He pauses a beat, swallowing audibly. “I’m sorry. I didn't help anything. I just… I fucking _sat_ there… and I… _listened_. I heard... _all of it_. I’m _sorry_. I’m _fucking sorry_. I should have said it sooner. I should have _busted_ in there and _fucked him up_.”

“Reno…”

“I’m paying for it though… Boy, am I paying for it. I’m never going to forget that. It’s burned in there pretty good. So like I keep saying... I’m not leaving, yo. You’re stuck with me. Not gonna find me sitting by again. I'm here. I was always here. I'll always be here.”

Cloud sniffs. He shrugs in his arms. “Thanks… for what it’s worth. For…”

“Yeah,” Reno answers, rescuing him from having to finish.

And that’s that.

“Who taught you to roll over and take it anyway?” he reprimands.

It could have been the end, maybe it _should_ have been, but Reno leans back so he can look Cloud in the face. He lifts his head off his chest to look right back. And what an image he is (and will always be), all glassy eyes, hanging hair and red lips. Beat puppies don’t look this pathetic.

“You stick with me and you won’t have that issue anymore. Get you to punch back twice as hard. Sure, you can take it, but you gotta dish it out too, you know? Bust your fuckin’ hands while you’re at it, yo. Maybe that’s _my_ childhood talking, but, put your fists first, man. I always had somebody to watch my back… I was always watching _his_ back… I got _your_ back now.”

Cloud’s silence is damning.

“You know...” Reno rambles, filling the air, feeling his head float and then free-fall and then settle again. He’s freezing wet and grassy, sore and starving, and, most unfortunate of all, not so tipsy anymore. “Don’t take this the wrong way. Just know it’s not as bad as it sounds. Entirely… You’re… probably the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Cloud takes it rather well, and better than to be expected, or even hoped, given their current position. He thumps his damp head back onto Reno’s chest and mumbles, “Thanks.”

“Anytime, dollface.”

“You’re…” Cloud turns to speak it into Reno’s dropped hood, the side of his face, the barest bit of his naked neck, “You’re definitely one of the better ones for me…”

Reno smiles, easy, getting a good pang in his stomach this time. “I do my best.”

 

 

He carries Cloud back up the trade road to the tent and right on back to Zack and things unknown. It smells smoky and dry when he gets them inside, but Zack’s out and not going to be of any immediate threat to him. He’s snoring and rolled over, unaware his nemesis is returning his boy unconscious and more than forty minutes later. And a little worse for wear.

Reno sets Cloud out limp next to him. The kid had dropped off about halfway back up the road, while Reno’s legs reminded him that he’s done too much exercise for one year. Maybe three. He struggled and almost slipped twice. Cloud isn’t that heavy, but Reno’s just as fucked up as the rest of them.

He makes sure Cloud settles and hesitates for as long as it takes him to kick the rucksacks clear of their feet, and then he’s throwing himself down right next to him, feeling the burn. And that’s fine at first, that might just work. He’s calming, he’s cooling, he’s knowing Cloud’s warmth, and his head’s not spinning too much. The smoky smell is less. The panic is less. They might actually get a chance to recover. But then, he’s getting cold and he’s starting to think.

With Zack breathing deeply, rasping through his mouth, because his nose was crunched by their former boss, Reno finally rolls over and cozies up to Cloud. He can’t resist the temptation. He might have resisted having him earlier, but he indulges in him now, loving it all the more because of Zack’s presence, just a mountain of a shoulder, all ignorance.

Cloud rolls to his side on his own after Reno’s initial movement. He’s probably looking for Zack, finding only his back. Reno nabs the chance and snuggles all the closer, eating up the opportunity to spoon him. He presses his chest to Cloud’s shoulder blades, his nose to his neck, his crotch to the top of his ass, and leaves no breathing room. He wiggles his left arm under Cloud’s turned head, wincing and suffering but staying true for the position. His right arm he throws around to lay over Cloud’s arm and narrow chest, dragging him away from Zack and closer still. His smell fills his nose.

Reno falls asleep this way.

They all three sleep.

They're all three spent.

 

 

You don’t have to tell him twice that he’s dreaming.

It’s not that big of a deal. He’s just shivering and freezing and blinking in and out of consciousness. He’s just riding the savage edge of life and death all over again, and it’s a thrill, and a terror, and Cloud’s there, blank faced.

He’s virginal compared to him, which is a laugh, considering what he just went through. Reno’s only missing three fingers and been run through and kicked down in comparison. He’s just as much covered in his brother’s blood as his own. But, Cloud, he’s clean. Virtually. Technically.

They’re not bothered after they land the chopper and get inside the tower. Reno still has his key card on him. It gives him access to a general range of Shinra-based locations and some executive levels. Of course, he aims for the executive dorms first.

They reach the floor, after much stumbling and trying, and occupy a room Reno only guesses will be empty. There he plans to hang low, wait for someone to come, for questions and accusations and demotion after demotion after demotion. He goes into survival mode, like an animal licking its wounds. He stows himself and Cloud away.

He’s spinning and reeling and telling Cloud everything. He really lets him have it. He explains he’s sure he’s fucked now. He can’t stop the bleeding. He’s not sure who he can trust anymore. What the fuck is going on? His brother died pissed off at him. He died angry. Not seething, but angry. He’d been telling him to grow up, to stop sleeping around ( _trying to_ in this case), to stop drinking every night, every day, every time he looked away. And that’s shitty.

Cloud just sits there and receives it, looking high as a kite, empty as an ancient seabed, not having said a word since NCB2. Reno doesn’t get more out of him until the next day. It’s not much, and it’s not very encouraging. It happens while he’s cursing at his sliced-to-shit and throbbing hand, resetting the soaked bandage.

“You’re missing fingers,” Cloud points out.

“Yes, thanks,” Reno answers, right hand trembling, straining to unroll the gauze.

It’s yet another day before he gets another word, and it goes like that for several days. A sentence a day. A comment every twenty-four hours. Reno tries to snap him out of it by force, of course. He tries to shake him. He tries yelling at him. He gets a whole lot of nothing.

It’s at that point, inches from his face, breath steaming, that Reno gets the evil idea. It pops up in an instant, stemming from a desire first realized after he first slapped eyes on him (strains of his ugly, unshakable nature), and it doesn’t leave until they do.

Cloud is as compliant as he’s ever going to be. He could take advantage of him, and chances are, Cloud wouldn’t fight back or resist in any way, or even remember. That has its uses and its downsides, yes. Reno likes a fight, a challenge, a good response, a victim, but he also likes his odds. He LOVES them. He just doesn’t like the feeling it puts in his guts more so... 

This was one of the first signs of his change of heart, his turning point, his loyalty, his respect, his love. He didn’t take advantage of him when he could, because he changed. But, _this_ is not how he remembers it. This _isn’t_ how it really played out. _This_ is a dream.

He doesn’t scream or yell or shake Cloud anymore, he stares him in those otherwise lovely blue eyes and resigns himself. He’s not a good person. He’s no better than Sephiroth. Those eyes don’t focus or turn or blink in return, but they do drag him in, and they drag him down. Reno’s kissing him hard then. He’s taking everything out on him. _Everything_. Here it all comes.

He bites and sucks and licks. He’s chewing Cloud’s tongue and his lips, knocking their teeth together and causing discomfort for sure. He rolls Cloud over, sending him onto his back. He moves easily, semi-responsive, fully pliant, and Reno descends, vicious and hungry, downright furious with it all. His head, heart, hand and cock throb on the same thread. Cloud’s assumed bed creaks beneath them. Cloud makes a small noise. It’s all over.

Poison. Venom. Fetid, growing want. Reno’s taking all of him. He’s tearing his pants off, ripping his shirt, catching his flesh. The marks he leaves are so stark and startling. Cloud’s so pale Reno can see every line of his blue-green veins. He’s so pale Reno can see bruises already starting and those leftover, brighter than fully bloomed flowers. He can see the print of his fingers after they’ve gripped and pulled and forced.

Cloud’s now bare, half on the bed and half on the floor, legs upright, feet flat on the floor, torso bent at the hips, head and chest laid over mattress, spine a bumpy ride down. Reno’s jerked him into position from behind, no longer pinning him from the top. He is presented head down and ass up. The kid’s legs tremble, knees threatening to buckle, and Reno hasn’t even started yet. He’s just admiring his catch, soaking him in, feeding the pride and passion.

Reno’s aching hard, heartbeat tick-ticking hard.

There’s no hope for either of them.

And it only gets worse, because he wants to feel him quiver and threaten to break before he consumes him. He wants to hear a hitch and stutter, every breath a sharp gasp. He gropes Cloud’s ass and then moves to prod his opening, fingers swiftly saliva slathered. He’s three digits in, knuckle deep, and Cloud’s a sweating, well-oiled mess, whimpering and whining.

It must be recycled. It must be soundtrack from Zack and Sephiroth both, and now Reno’s getting his turn. He’s going to have him screaming just as much, if not more. He promises, he guarantees, Cloud will shout his throat raw. He’ll beg and plead and suffer. This is _his_ damn dream after all, and he can do whatever he wants. He’s a sadistic fuck. He could _really_ get a twisted thrill and screw Zack if he wanted to. He could fuck _him_ into a coma. Fuck that stupid, easy, head-cocking smile off his face. Or... make him watch.

He removes his fingers (one), aligns his cock (two), and fills Cloud (three).

It’s not so much a moan as it is a cry for help. Reno claws his hips and sides and rides forward, oblivious, slamming the back of Cloud’s thighs, pummeling Cloud’s face and chest across the bed, ignoring his cries as much as living in every one. Cloud’s knees dip, and so do they, but Reno doesn’t stop. He readjusts, driving Cloud to the mattress and his cock deeper, deeper, deeper. They collide over and over, slick and slapping, frantic, frenzied, fallen.

It’s just the two of them. Zack doesn’t exist yet. If Reno had collected himself sooner and gotten them out of there sooner, Zack might never have found them. Reno would have had the golden boy all to himself. It sounds like a hand-off... Seph for Reno. The thought isn’t lost on him.

He bucks and toils and gasps, fingers wet and slipping. He rakes him with his nails and bites his throat and his shoulders, ramming in repeatedly, aggressively, not giving Cloud a chance to breathe, or recover, or protest, the thrill and the ease and the power pushing Reno on. He tailors every reaction, he’s measured every movement.

He lays over Cloud’s sweat-slicked back. He arrests Cloud’s every remaining senses. He pulls his hair, chomps his throat. He digs and claws. He fills him up. Cloud takes every inch of it. Soon, it’s just images and sensations and the repeated, replayed and tortuous sounds of Cloud moaning and pleading and screaming it out. And his wondrous, overwhelming smell, because he’s _right_ there in reality, all snuggled up. That’s what starts to disrupt the show.

The images waver. Cloud’s moans quiet and fade.

Dreams won’t do, Reno’s subconscious wants to feel the real deal.

 

 

_Status: Unknown - Location: Unknown_

Zack isn’t so sure he’s dreaming.

He can hear New Corel around them. He can hear voices, conversations and then nothing, calm. Now a fleeting shuffle, now the wind moving, now the shelter respiring around them. He can still smell the remnants of his cigarette. He can hear Reno and Cloud breathing even, in tandem, sleeping. It’s morning. Somehow he knows that. And then he knows someone else is there too. That shuffling wasn’t the wind, but the tent flap opening.

He knows this smell, this presence. He was always terrifying, commanding, suffocating, mesmerizing, and now he’s hanging right over him. Zack loved him once. He was _crazy_ about him, but then he went crazy _on_ him. He grew jealous and angry. He took it out on Zack until Zack couldn't love him anymore. But, even still, even now, Zack can remember that pride and awe. He's feeling it as Sephiroth moves to jab his blade down into his heart from above, catching it, pinning it there, wanting to destroy and take every last shred.

Zack starts at the strike, inhaling a great gutted and breathy gulp as Masamune passes on through, sly as a riddle, even as horizon. The pain is great, the love for Sephiroth greater. It doesn’t die, it only swells, rebels and rises. Zack feels every inch of the metal and he’s thankful for it. But, soon he can't breath and the feeling turns sour, the reality sinks in, the truth and the blood bubbles and clots. He flails his arm to the side, trying for Cloud, but getting Reno.

Up Reno’s head pops, groan included.

Sephiroth is gone, the blade is gone, the love, the fear, the pain, but it's so quickly replaced.

Reno's coiled around Cloud, their auras mixing marigold, yellow-orange.

Zack only sees red.

“ _Whoa_ ,” Reno exhales, and then he’s busy defending.

But, there’s no point. Zack grips him by the front of his hoodie and tears him up and away from Cloud, almost lifting the tent with them as he rises and goes. He has nothing to say. He hurls Reno out on his side into the cold and still-damp dirt and gravel, clear of his golden boy. He quickly follows, emerging from the shelter like a bouncer ready to finish the job.

Reno scrambles and kicks and gets to his feet. “ _Wait, wait, wait_ ,” he’s offering, backing away, arms out at his front to ward him off. “Just hear me out, man. I don’t want to fight you! Wait! Is this a SOLDIER character trait? _Everything belongs to me?_ This is a— Look, look, _wait!_ ” he howls, having stopped his retreat to ramble his cause only to be caught by the throat and arm.

“I told you…” Zack rumbles into his face, a sudden, fervent shake flicking Reno’s hood half down over his eyes, dimming them. His stiff fingers bite at his arm. “Don’t. _Touch_. Him.”

Reno animatedly nods, pulling at Zack just the same.

Zack doesn’t get to make his point more vividly and painfully clear, to his misfortune, the hum of a machine catches their attention and then Reno’s jerking his foot forward and knocking him between the legs. It happens on the very same note. If he wasn’t in such a rage fueled blackout Zack might have reacted more violently, but as it is, he loosens his grip, leans and braces. 

Reno twists and slips away. “That’s a plane!” he’s shouting, bouncing, pointing.

Zack doubles and groans, now feeling the delayed results of Reno’s quick thinking.

“Oh shit! I’ll flag it down!” And now Reno’s off, reenacting the night in the prairie.

Seconds later, Cloud’s asking from behind, “Are you okay? Where’s Reno?”

Zack composes and turns, wincing and aggravated, but all intact. He shrugs his sagging shoulders all the more. He has no fatal wound. Sephiroth was never there. He dreamed a dream and that dream has faded, just as his hopes, his ego, and his psyche. He sighs, consciousness not much better, and grumbles, “He ran off.”


	32. Chapter 32

_Status: Ex-bodyguard - Location: North Corel_

He’s not very steady. He’s not very steady at all. He might have woken up with a hard-on too, but that went away quickly and painfully as everything lifted, cleared and fit into place. He was balls deep in that dissipating and deceitful dream, and then Zack had to happen. He smacked him in the head and rose like a Titan to throw him out, swift and just.

Reno reacted with surprise and then burning guilt, almost sure Zack knew his thoughts and his pleasure and his need. He could see the realization written on his face, even so blurry-eyed, dream-soaked and snarled in the haze. It wasn’t hard to miss, because something clicked, something went bad, and Zack finally caught on: _he’s cuddling my boy_.

Rambling excuses and threats and measures of possession, and then the airplane: a blessing for so many reasons. Reno was able to kick Zack in the balls to escape, and now they have a real opportunity to escape themselves.

It couldn’t get better. Well, no, wait... It could _always_ get better. He needs more drink, a bite to eat, and something soft to kick back on, and Cloud to be sane (and far away from his subconscious). In his mind, they can be to Junon by nightfall. They can go so far as Kalm, lay low, and get everyone some damn peace. He just needs to flag down that plane and pilot.

Halfway down the trade road, far from Zack and possible penalties, headed for the low flying airplane he can _see_ the writing on, even now, even bounding and skidding and almost losing his balance, he runs into another force of Shinra soldiers on their way up to check Corel.

He smacks right into the lead, thumping him back a step and his rifle right up. Reno bounces clean off, spinning past them and continuing on, not giving them a chance to recognize him or stop him, or react in any other way than confusion and annoyance. He shouts a _sorry_ in their direction, turning to look, not at them, but for Cloud and Zack a ways up the climb. To his great relief, and supreme pleasure, they’re not in sight. They must have ducked back into the tent.

So, already on the move, Reno pulls his hood lower and continues down the road, cursing himself and the day. He’s not being followed by the soldiers, they stick to the path, and he can still see the plane. Not everything is lost, but fuck this day anyway.

He’ll do this, he’ll run back, he’ll get them, avoid the noise, and then everything’s fine. They can hitch a ride, jump to Junon or wherever (anywhere but here or Gongaga), and _really_ start the mending process. Cloud can relax and collect himself, and he and Zack can enjoy a high five and some manly bonding time. Everyone will be happy. Their luck won’t be so bad. This isn’t any worse than his move earlier. He still has some of that wild hope left over.

He stumbles and stops at the mouth of the valley. The plane is circling because it’s wanting to land below. That’s Reno’s best hope and first thought anyway. He keeps his eyes on it, marking its path, and then he’s sprinting again. He’s going all out into the field he just shagged his ass through to get _here_. There’s not going to be anything of him left after this, just flesh and bones. He didn’t have a lot of excess stamina or flesh to begin with.

The plane is landed and cycling down when he manages to get up to it, legs and chest and head now running on fumes and battery acid. A sandy-haired man in his late thirties is jumping from the cockpit. The writing on the side of the aircraft reads _Bronco II_. The plane itself is rather small but fitted with two prominent propellers. Its body is faded cherry and old, very old. Like, maybe it’s a prototype that never lived up to its name old. Like, maybe it’s on its last legs and this idea won’t work old. 

“Hey,” Reno gasps, now left to catch his breath.

“Whoa,” the man blurts, turning.

“You taking passengers?” Reno gusts.

“Where’d you come from?”

“I… _ran_. I ran from… _Corel_ ,” he answers.

“Damn,” the man considers. “Just for that... I might have to. Where you goin’?”

“Can you make it to Junon? If not… somewhere... far away.”

“You on the lam?”

“Yeah. Could use a hand…”

“Far away, huh? I dunno…” The man considers, working his jaw. He smells of alcohol from this distance. That should improve his odds. Tilting his head, he then prods him with a sooty black finger. “You’re payin’ for gas.”

“We can... figure something out...” Reno proposes.

“Hop in. Just need to check a few things.”

“It’s not... _just_ me. I’ve got a few friends.”

“A few?”

“Two.”

“Sure, but it’s gonna be tight… They in Corel?”

“Yeah…”

“Better start runnin’, kid.”

_Fuck._

 

 

_Status: Unknown - Location: Unknown_

“You were after him?” Cloud asks, already on it.

Zack’s simmering, on edge, and his head is throbbing (along with his best assets and his face and his arm and his chest). He hasn’t moved from where he ended up after tangling with Reno, but he feels he should. He feels he should be grabbing Cloud and getting out, getting on, _now now now_ , but he remains, unsure, uneven, unbalanced, and falling deeper.

What was isn’t. He’s losing track of himself. He’s slipping away. His reality is strenuous, tenuous and ready to break. He won’t easily shake this dread, this desire, and this anxiety. _He_ was there, in so many ways. He was right there, _fucking_ with him all over again.

“He was all over you,” Zack explains, not sure who he means anymore.

Sephiroth, Reno...

“I… was asleep,” Cloud answers.

“Oh, man...” Zack groans, clenching a hand. “He’s making this harder than it needs to be.”

“He’s… _trying_...”

“There you go again.” Now he’s making his move, motivated, turning on his heels, both arms raised to mid-chest, hands fisted, shoulders hunched. He’s headed for Cloud still standing at the head of the tent. “ _Defending_ him,” he accuses. 

In answer, Cloud moves backwards, taking a regressive step from Zack and assisting his crumbling mind frame not at all. Advancing on regardless, held in his autopilot trance, Zack pushes Cloud crouched and low back into the tent, as far as he can go, until he’s got him trapped.

“Hey...” Cloud utters, tone low and crouching itself: a slick weapon, a cutting wound.

“Thought you weren’t afraid of me...”

“I’m _not_. You just… look...”

(... _incoming, incoming_ …)

“Shh,” Zack hisses, swiveling to glance to the opening of their tent, expecting it to be no more than Reno crawling back too soon. He waits a beat for another clue, a noise, an attack, an infernal, internal whisper. Nothing, and then a tingling realization—it’s more Shinra soldiers.

He doesn’t look away as he reaches for his sword laid out at Cloud’s left, his right, he just collects the handle and draws it closer, making ready.

They both brace and wait, collective breath held. The group (a melding of multi-colours to Zack, a probable smudge of shadow to Cloud) advance and pass, silently drifting towards the center of Corel and away from their location on the far edge. It could be a group of travelers or traders, but not with their luck. They might not have to worry about staying quiet so much as getting everything together for a mad dash.

“I’m not afraid of _you_ ,” Cloud rasps, a borderline whisper, regaining Zack’s limited attention. “You just look... pissed off.”

“I _am_ pissed off...” Zack growls.

“About Reno?”

“About _everything!_ ”

Cloud delays, maybe waiting out the soldiers and the tension just as much as Zack’s anger, aware of their situation or not. When he does start again it’s slow, low and picking up only to sound strained midway. “I’m… afraid of _everything_. Not you. I’m afraid of… _losing_ you again. And _myself_. And—”

“That’s not gonna happen,” Zack sharply assures, releasing the sword grip.

Cloud shakes his head, frame tensing, aura agitated. “See, I don’t _fucking_... _believe_ you...”

“I guess… that makes sense…” Zack agrees, even and awful, picking through the threads, shreds, and gore remaining of his already ravaged confidence. “We don’t have the history... or the trust we could and _should_ have… I kinda fucked all that up. I wasn’t there... I wasn’t... the hero I wanted to be. I’m better than this.”

“That’s not what I meant… I don’t believe your _bullshit_.”

“You don't... trust me.”

“No, I… Let’s just… figure out what we’re doing _now_. We gotta move.”

It’s Zack’s turn to shake his head, feeling his loose bandage jigging over his jacket collar.

Cloud snaps, “ _What?_ You don’t want—” 

“I don’t want _you_ coming. I don’t want _you_ in danger,” he insists. “I don’t know how it’s going to go down in Gongaga, but I can guess. I’m going to _end it_ , Cloud... and it’s going to play out badly. You should… use Reno while you can. Stick with him and wait for this to blow over.” 

“ _Blow over?_ ” Cloud exclaims, springing forward, gesturing wide. The sudden fire stings Zack, quickly passing to be replaced by the bite of an icier wave. “That’s what you’re going to call it? You think I can just walk away? You think I don’t _know_ I’m helping you _kill_ yourself?”

“It’s not just…”

“Stop. I hate to say it, really, but... just _stop_.”

Zack shrugs. “I can’t do that.”

“Yeah… I know,” Cloud grumbles, looking away, golden hair tossing filaments of light bright enough to catch and spark and make Zack feel the need to turn away himself. “I can’t either...”

“ _Yes_ , you can. Get out now.”

“ _No_.”

“ _Cloud_.”

“Shut up!” he shouts—his charm, his totem, his bane—really stressing their safety and flashing like a flare, a lighting snap, a camera shutter. He sighs and pauses and swallows and doesn’t say anything for a long while. It’s heavy business when he starts up again, throat tight and locking, the words thick and crooked. “I don’t know if... it’s _really me_ talking anymore… I think it is… I hope it is... But... I _care_ about you, Zack. You idiot. So… maybe it IS me talking… I care about what happens to you. I’m going to _help_ you. I’m going to follow you even if you leave me here. I’m going to come after you, all the way, every step. I said I love you and I know I _meant_ it. For what it’s worth… _I love you_ , Zack _fucking_ Fair.”

“ _I’m_ killing you.”

“ _Sephiroth’s_ killing me.”

“ _I killed Sephiroth_.”

And they’re almost back to square one.

“ _He’s_ …” Cloud struggles, aura livid bright, pulsing. Something seems to have clicked, his whole demeanor and direction shifting with it. He’s golden clean, no sign of green, but not even and sure. There’s a ripple, a disruption, a visible trembling. “He’s… _laughing_ at me…”

Zack can feel his guts and flesh coiling and clawing to get away, burned and now charring. He doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to know it. He’s been pushing Cloud down and pulling him up all at once. He wants him close, but he doesn’t want to face the truth. But, he _did_ , didn’t he? He faced it when he fucked him (as if to defy it) and now his lack of control is biting back.

“He laughs and _laughs_ …” Cloud mutters.

“He’s _dead_ …” Zack announces, snapping, breaking, shattering to pieces. “He’s _dead_ , he’s DEAD!” He’s giving Cloud a reason to fear him now, and the soldiers to come running. He’s grabbing him, throwing him to the bedroll, throttling from above, drilling home his point, over and over, a mimicry of their previous passion. “Dead, dead, dead! Fucking DEAD! _I killed him!_ ”

 

 

_Status: Ex-bodyguard - Location: North Corel_

It’s not the lowlands that get him, it’s the steep climb back up to Corel. His high-tops are good for being sneaky, and for a certain amount of comfort, and nostalgia, but they’re not very good hill climbers, and they don’t keep your feet warm or dry for shit. He slips once, arms wheeling, and that’s it. He hits the ground hard and isn’t getting up again. At least, not anytime soon.

“Ow, fuck.”

He rests and hunches, but he can’t take long. The soldiers are still up there, he can bet, looking around and maybe even setting up for the night. Meanwhile, Zack and Cloud are stuck and unable to retreat. Who knows if that old guy will even wait for them? He can’t delay.

Off again Reno starts, crawling forward. His legs and arm don’t want to suffer him. He’ll have to motivate them the hard way, hobbled and stilted. His knees are hurting by the time they want to work it out and he gets his left foot under him. Urging on from there the right follows suit, carrying him to his peak and standard, but no more.

He sways there, lightheaded, taking a good breath, cradling his tingling left arm to his chest. His collarbone is on fire. This is going to be the last push. He’ll get Zack to carry him back…

Onward he goes, shuffling, keeping his feet close to the ground at first so they don’t slip up again. He’s headed to their damn tent and has gotten only halfway. He’s close, he’s good, he can almost see it, he can almost _taste_ it. There’s the rest of the joint unfolding, no soldiers present or probing, just the angry voices of what he’s hoping aren’t his companions.

Reno reaches his destination and stumbles to the small shelter, the first in a line of them, their voices evident now and not a doubt. More than raised, but belted out, they jump to a pinnacle and then fall into a dramatic pause. Reno enjoys the first nasty itches of doubt and anxiety, having to compose before leaning inside, and almost gets his lights knocked out for his troubles.

“Shit!” he exclaims, recoiling. “It’s me!”

“Where were you?” Cloud shoots back.

“Found us a ride. Let’s go!”

But, at his revelation, Reno is tapped on the shoulder from behind. He looks over that tapped shoulder to find the lead soldier from before, all his buddies not far behind grouped and armed and aimed right at him. There’s not much warning, just a swift punch to his most convenient kidney as a _hello_ , and then Reno’s dropping on his ass at the soldier’s feet.

He doesn’t get the chance to roll over and retaliate in fond, fiery fashion, alas, because the tent is shredding and Zack is erupting from the fabric to strike back for him. He takes care of the single soldier in one fell swoop, Reno and Cloud left in the spray and shredded aftermath.

It’s fight or flight. The residents of North Corel have seen enough and choose the latter. Now there’s shouting and scrambling. Cue the madness and the fleeing and the delayed gunfire. Cue an unfortunate distraction.

Reno paws and pulls at the tent pieces, freeing himself at last. He finds Cloud on the other side looking only mildly concerned. Zack is not immediately present, and then neither are they, because Reno’s grabbing for Cloud’s arm and their effects and jumping straight up, sending them down the trade road to the waiting plane.

While gunshots rattle off and people yell, shout, and scream out (soldiers, civilians, Zack), the nest stirred up, Cloud lurches and digs in, dragging his boots, wanting to get right back to it. Reno fights against him and then he has to give in, too agitated to play, and all run out.

“Here,” he growls, throwing a rucksack into Cloud’s chest. “You keep going. _I’ll_ get him. There’s a plane in the valley.”

“I’m coming with you,” Cloud argues. “Give me a gun.” He shoulders his rucksack, half his damn size, and offers his sandy, wet hand already speckled with soldier’s blood. It’s an awful thing, small and white and not remotely virginal anymore.

Reno shakes his head and points down the path. “You need to _run_ and make sure that guy waits for us.”

Someone screams, metal sings.

“You’ll need my help,” Cloud maintains.

“You…” But, he can’t deny that. “You might be _right_. But, if you _lose_ it… or get _shot_ …”

Rattling, repeating rifle discharges. Bodies rush by, escaping, beating them to it.

“ _Reno_.”

“I better not regret this!”

 

 

It’s not going to matter either way. They don’t have to worry about helping anyone. At least, not with any amount of soldiers. Whatever rage Zack had been about to pour out found its outlet. He doesn’t leave them any sort of dramatic rescue or valiant assistance. He doesn't leave them much of anything. Zack clears the sorry excuse for a town of every living soul.

As they arrive, moving against more fleeing civilians and a handful of soldiers, they find the shreds of their tent blowing in the wind along with any good hopes of the day. There Zack is too, a bloody and heaving statue, a monument among what he has left of North Corel, his marred sword tip drilled into the gravel at his feet, his head bandage omitted.

“Zack.” And, despite all this, Cloud is at his side. “Are you…” But, then he isn’t. He puts that idea right back in its box and he starts backing away from him, because Zack is _not_ okay.

“Hey, Cloud…” Reno mutters, careful and cautious, coming up late, but his efforts are useless. He's reeling, flinching on reflex, and Zack's filling his vision, murderous and deadly, eyeless and scarred, bloodied and battered. He's almost too much to handle.

Reno’s life, in all its miserable glory, is about to flash before his eyes.

“Just like Sephiroth,” Zack rumbles, leaving Reno shoved and stunned, but alive.

The ex-SOLDIER rips his big damn sword from the dirt, now more red and wet than silvery anything, and shoulders it. He glances right by Cloud (the brutalized puppy, the root and receptor of it all, standing firm but quiet) and starts stalking down the trade road to the valley below, and their waiting ride.

Cloud and Reno share a look and a glance around, but they follow.

 

 

Zack’s going to get to the Bronco II first.

They’re sticking behind him, trudging down the trail into the valley and then right through the valley, every step slogging wet and moist from the rain the days before. They don’t make it a rush (Reno’s certainly in no hurry, even if he _is_ in a hurry). They keep a safe distance from Zack and his plodding and brooding. He’s clearly making for the plane, a straight shot from the trail, so there’s really no need to intervene, but then, his present appearance might not help relations.

“Gongaga? I thought—” the pilot’s saying.

“No,” Reno outright refuses, getting there moments later with Cloud. “We’re going to Junon or—” But, before he can express his rather valid point, he’s shoved into the side of the Bronco II, head bouncing, _thud_ , Zack’s hot breath all over his face, sodden fist locked in his hoodie.

“ _I'm_ going _home_ ,” Zack gusts, _very_ much _very_ serious. He’s proving again that he’s dominant, and scary, and still stronger and faster half dead than Reno is in any state of exhaustion.

Reno glowers back at him, and only hopes he can _see_ every detail and level of distaste therein. He’s fighting off the horrible, nauseating sensations at the very same time, the result of having to deal with Zack’s glaring handicap in all its disturbing grandeur.

_He’s got no fucking eyes._

“We don't need to be running into more trouble, we need to be getting _help!_ ” Reno reasons.

“I’m not _running_ ,” Zack answers.

“Oh, it’s not _running_. It’s _self-preservation_.”

“ _Hey_ ,” the pilot barks. “I remember you two...”

On that, Zack lets Reno go, easing him off the fuselage and saving his backsliding sanity.

“We met in Tier,” the pilot marvels.

“Gongaga or bust...” Reno grumbles, rubbing the back of his head.

“You’re the dead man, and… uh...”

“ _Cloud_ ,” Zack rumbles at the guy, losing none of his charm.

“Yeah, yeah… It’s me, Cid. You… have an _accident_ or somethin’? You… uh...”

“We really need to get going…” Cloud mutters.

“Right, right. Hop in,” Cid offers, gesturing at them all.

They scramble to oblige, Reno following Cloud up into the two person cockpit, hiking himself high by the handholds. He turns, hanging off the side, offering Zack a hand up, but of course, to no one’s real surprise, the brute doesn’t regard or accept it. He braces to pull himself up the smooth fuselage on his own, only waiting for Reno to move out of his way.

Reno scowls (he never stopped).

More bad luck is coming their way.

 

 

They leave North Corel devastated and deserted. Flying over, Reno gets a good view. It’s not very pretty from any angle. Fires are burning on, left to smolder out on their own. Items have been scattered and knocked over, crushed and splintered. Bodies lay strewn and slashed, many hewn and limbless. Many might not be soldiers. As they cruise by and clear the small town, Reno spots groups of people hoofing it through the prairies, still running all out, still fleeing.

Gongaga is hours from here. That is, if they land right in the middle of it and don’t have to deal with any detours. Even if Zack’s crazy enough to head there, he’s still not stupid enough to just drop right in. He's having Cid leave them miles out. They'll walk the rest of the way, or make camp and take it on better standing. Based off of how rampaged out and purely used up Zack looks, they'll need to. They’ll spend one more night together.

The aircraft is too loud for easy conversation. The trip goes on boring and the trio crammed. Zack and Reno rub hips and shoulders as they share the co-pilot’s seat. Something damp is wetting Reno’s side and thigh. The smell of blood is heavy. Cloud is mostly in _his_ lap, to his inconvenience, and the kid’s been faithfully avoiding looking out the window or making any eye contact. He chews his fingers, his lips and twists his jacket’s zipper pull. He’s acting as trapped as they are, and visibly anxious to be in the air again.

At the end of this day trip, they'll see just how serious Zack is, and just how much of a legend he ever was. His success will only help their case. His death will only help Reno’s.

He might not willingly stand in the fire with him, but Reno’s not going to abandon him either. And he can’t let Cloud get hurt trying to follow after half-cocked, because he’s bound to. If Reno can understand one thing, it’s revenge. And love. Almost. Love’s coming along. He’s getting there. It’s a work in progress, but at least he’s _making_ progress. Zack’s not going to get all the glory.

By late afternoon they reach the southernmost region of the western continent, and the outskirts of their potential final destination, Gongaga the Gruesome. The drop-off comes all too soon, no matter how dull or cramped. They’re already watching the Bronco II lift off vertically and ascend to disappear into the dimming sky from the ground.

Cid didn’t bring up any payment or have questions about gas, he just told them good luck, surprised them with a gift, and disembarked, saying something about his _damn lady_.

Reno grumbles, “I don’t wanna walk anymore… We didn’t even crash...”

They’re already too close to Gongaga for his comfort. Cid left them with an old tent, so at least tonight they’ll have shelter, but they haven’t eaten since Costa, and they all need water soon. They can’t backtrack because there are no towns. They can’t go forward because of the death zone. The evening was already gloomy.

“Why couldn’t I sell drugs? Why wasn’t I a delivery boy?” he laments.

They drift a distance from the clearing the aircraft needed to land and prospect for a good spot to make their camp, night approaching in hours. The cloud laden sky is darkening more and more with every sluggish step they make. Reno knows daylight during this time of year lasts roughly ten hours, and night is fourteen. They’ve got a lot to look forward to.

The spot they choose is walled by trees, protected from the wind and anyone's roving eye, and mostly dry too. Even with the moisture in the air, Reno starts a fire easily with the cigarette lighter. They have plenty of dry fuel in the underbrush around them. It’s the _antique_ tent that becomes the problem…

It takes Cloud getting fed up at Reno’s lack of expertise (and fingers) to get it pitched.

“I don’t suggest moonlighting as a park ranger. Or a wildlife painter… Or a camper...” Cloud ribs.

“I don’t suggest sassing me,” Reno answers.

“ _Sassing_ you? How _old_ are you?”

“I’m in your demographic.”

“Barely,” Cloud scoffs.

After fixing the tent, Cloud finally gets the chance to rewrap Zack's naked head and check his status, fully rescuing Reno from having to divert his eyes and dealing with the unfriendly twist it causes his delicate insides every time he looked his way. The absence, the scarring… It unsettles him fundamentally. It’s like he has no soul.

The night levels out after that, now fully dropping. It’s calm and cool, turning cold. They sit around their sheltered fire on their ankles and Reno on a large rock. The moon comes out, the stars show, bugs chirp, night birds warble, but the doom and gloom remains. And the thirst. And the questions. And the situation. But, not the hunger. The last MRE gets split three ways.

They don’t have a bedroll this time around but they do have the boughs from trees and plenty of semi-dry grasses and leaves for padding. The area is lush with overgrowth. While Cloud took care of Zack, Reno took to making their shelter comfy. It’s going to be warmer by all accounts for that reason. And they’ll need it. He owes Cid for his generosity.

The only downside Reno can think of is that he’s not going to have the enjoyment of spooning with anyone tonight. Zack’s going to sleep between them to hinder any snuggling. If they sleep at all. He knows _he_ wants to. He’s ready to right now. Maybe that’s why he’s thinking about it so much… He just wants a good night’s rest and to dream a harmless dream.

Any of Reno’s half-thoughts at making light of the situation, or resting in any way, or letting his stomach settle, are expertly undermined. Zack takes it upon himself to kill the possibility of good things being and murders their newborn calm in glorious fashion.

Lighting a cigarette, he tells Cloud, “You’re leaving tomorrow with Reno.”

 

 

_Status: Unknown - Location: Miles outside Gongaga_

“What?” Cloud blurts. He was wounded already, now he’s struggling to sustain. “Why are you telling me this again now?” 

Zack readily explains, going on clinically and controlled. “I’m heading in alone. Reno’s going to take you back to Junon, or wherever. The less I know the better, to be honest.” He’s just sitting there as he’s saying it, spilling out the agony, dealing the damage, the glow of the fire lighting his sterile face moodily. “I’m telling you now and not just _leaving_ , because… I don't want you to feel like I've abandoned you…”

“You already have,” Cloud admits, voice staying remarkably steady, even offering ease and gusto. “You did when you decided you wanted to die to prove a point that doesn't need proving. You did when you asked me to help you get here.”

“That's not true. If I don't do this he'll follow us. _They’ll_ follow us.”

“We can—”

“Run away?” Zack growls.

“We can…” Cloud remembers his words: _we'll figure this out_. “You're such a hypocrite.”

Zack stiffens his back and straightens up. “I’m a…”

“Yeah, you _are_ ,” Cloud confirms. “You said _that's not gonna happen_. You'd never leave me. We'd _figure this out_... and all this other _bullshit_. This isn't figuring anything out. This is giving up!”

“I'm fighting to end it!”

“You're fighting to _die!_ ”

“Whoa, whoa…” Reno hushes, but there’s nothing for it.

“I don't know what I'm doing, Zack! I never have. I've followed you out of guilt! And stupid fucking love! I think! It just feels like dying most of the time. I’m helpless. And I hate feeling helpless! I've been helpless my entire life! I went along with you... if only so I wouldn't have to think about _my_ shit. You’ve been allowed to get this far because of _me_. Not anymore. I can't let you do this, and I won't let you go in there alone!”

“I'm not getting you killed over my responsibilities. That's the opposite of what needs to happen. Why is that so hard to understand? No, nothing’s fine. No, we’re not okay. I’m going to end it. You can still have a life. I… it doesn't look good for _me_. You can—”

“ _What?_ Mourn you the rest of my life?”

“ _Yes_. Or you can _live_ your damn _life_.”

“I'm as much involved as _you_ are... as _Reno_ is. You think we can run away too?”

“Shit. As much as I don’t want to say it…” Reno finally responds, speaking up, “We should do this together or not at all. You’d just run off and then he would follow you, and I would follow _him_ … and it would pan out for the worst. Things would get messy. We might as well go in strong, _kinda_ , and… face whatever’s on the other side with our heads held high, right?”

Zack shrugs and rubs his hands together, working them out, along with his thoughts and his fears and the next statement. “So… It’s _selfish_ to want you to survive?”

“At the cost of my heart and my mind? I’d rather die,” Cloud answers.

“Dunno about all that...” Reno provides. “But, I know I'm living on borrowed time.”

“Yeah…” Zack groans. “I think we all are...”

“So, in the meantime, you gotta keep me on my toes, man,” Reno continues. “As much as I hate you… I can’t have you going off to die for no reason. Who would keep me from fondling Cloud?”

“That’s not helping…” Zack grumbles, turning his head away.

“You’re so touchy, man.”

“I don’t… like the idea of you _all over_ him.”

“Why? What’s wrong with _me?_ ”

“I... don’t trust you. Fighting you just as much as myself.”

“Speaking of _fighting_ … Can we talk about Corel? I have more reasons not to trust _you_.”

“You’re hiding something.”

“Only thing I’m hiding is a ridiculously insecure and needy personality. You already know I want to bone your boy. What the fuck else is there? I’m not a _spy_. I never turned on you. Well, not _Cloud_ —not for real—so by association I never turned on _you_. And I don’t plan to, yo.”

“He’s jealous,” Cloud offers, still stewing, still hurting.

Zack flinches, physically showing the blow.

“Mister ex-SOLDIER… is jealous... of _me?_ The _fuck up_ , the _annoyance_?”

“Yeah,” Zack admits, now looking their way. “Because he… trusts you. More than me.” 

“I don't trust anyone more than anyone else,” Cloud rebukes. “I don’t trust the _bullshit_ … But, at this point, Reno's said the same and he's _staying_. So, maybe I should trust him more…”

“Pfft, man. You’re such a pussy,” Reno sighs, going on to trill, “Oh, boo hoo, he doesn’t _trust_ me as much… Will we _ever_ make it? Will I ever get to kill myself? Boo hoo...”

“He’s mine.”

That shuts Reno up, but only for a moment. He speaks the words on Cloud’s tongue. “ _Yours?_ ”

“Mine,” Zack confirms.

Reno scoffs. “Like… _you_ were Sephiroth’s _yours_? Because—”

“Like _mine_ mine. Which means you’re not to touch him. If you think about touching him... _don’t_. I don’t trust you’ll keep your hands off him either way. I don’t trust you know what discretion means.” 

“That’s harsh, and gonna be a little difficult…”

“I suggest trying, or this sudden _all for one_ shit ain’t workin’.”

“How you gonna know anyway? I could be thinking about him right—”

Zack rises to stand, ready to back up his word.

Cloud flinches, snapping to attention, making ready to counter if need be, but it’s just a show of purpose and power, nothing else.

It only proves to make Cloud love and hate Zack all the more. He’s attached. He’s so willing to defend him. He’s so willing to fight and follow duty. They’re all so willing to defend and protect each other (Reno included, where _he’s_ concerned, when he's pushing), and that should only help them, but it's not. What should be their boon is threatening to drive them apart.

Reno remains seated meanwhile, observing Zack sidelong from his over-sized stone (observing little worry, always cool, always casual). “Okay then,” he concedes, gesturing his arms in waving indifference, seeing and honouring Cloud’s livid expression and frantic reaction. “I’ll do my best… First come, first serve, and all that...”

“That doesn’t solve anything though,” Cloud argues, standing to mirror Zack, looking for a reaction, a tick, a twitch, a sign of remorse in him. “What if I _am_ yours? I won’t be tomorrow…”

“Cloud…”

“I’m coming with you.”

“I wanted you to meet the parents…” Zack offers, changing the game, but not his expression.

Cloud’s justified indignation grinds to a halt.

“My first idea… the _very first_ plan… was to bring you here to meet my parents. You remember. I bet you do. It was right after we got that old guy’s airship. Right after we got off that fucking frozen rock. I had just told you how important you were to me... I just finished wrapping your head, your busted head… your eye... I looked into your face...”

Cloud deflates altogether.

“And I thought… _this is it_. This is the person I want to be with. I’m done fighting. I wasn’t afraid for my parents. I wanted to gloat. They’ve only ever just been… my _parents_ , you know? I don’t have a special bond, an undying devotion, it’s just love and duty. That’s it. I need to see this through because the Director took away any other choices. I gotta face him… Face why I ran… and kept running... I gotta face my wants and involvement… But, I can’t pull you in anymore. You’re… as much a victim of my love as you are your own.”

“You _can’t_ go,” Cloud tries, losing his fortitude and edging into hysteria.

“I have to,” Zack answers.

“You’ll… you _can’t_ … You can’t leave me,” Cloud protests, seal broken, trammeled emotions pouring out, ugly and uncensored and pathetic. “Please don’t. Everyone leaves me. Everyone. They all promise. They all lie. You _can’t_ … Stop. STAY!”

“I’m... not going to,” Zack says, and stands there. He doesn’t move to comfort Cloud or talk him out of his messy and angry tears. He doesn’t try to sugar coat it or smooth it over, he lets him have it. “I’m going to fight. I’m probably going to die. Know it’s because I’m fighting to come back to you. Know it’s because I’m fighting _for_ you.”

“I don’t want you to fight for me! I just want _you!_ ”

“I’m done talking about it...”

“Yeah, we should really just try to chill…” Reno adds.

Cloud sniffs and blinks, shoving down the tears. “What happened to _together?_ ”

“Hey, hey, look. He's right _too_ , yo… It's not a good outcome either way. We should limit the damage. You shouldn't be put in that kind of position. It's too dangerous. We should…”

“I can't _believe_ either of you. He's going to DIE.”

“And so will we!” Reno throws back.

“I don't care!” Cloud cries, shaking his head.

“WE do!” Reno bellows.

“Fuck you! What about ME!? What about what I want!?”

“You need to calm down…”

“ _Calm down!?_ My head's filled with a monster who raped me and killed your brother! My family would rather burn than stick around! The rest have just wanted to fuck me and use me and throw me out! I don't know who I am anymore! And my… my… Zack's...”

Cloud sways, vision streaking.

 

 

_Status: Ex-bodyguard - Location: Miles outside Gongaga_

It’s a shuffling, fumbling response and several exclamations after that. The very first comment is a: _what the fuck_. The first comprehensive comment is a: _oh, what the fuck happened, not again, not again_. Both are Reno, and both are left unanswered in the lengthening moment. 

Zack collects Cloud and carries him off like it’s just another natural occurrence. He carts him inside the tent and Reno follows, hanging around to peek inside for his own state of mind. “He’s probably just exhausted,” he tells himself aloud.

Zack brushes by and returns to his seat on the ground, nice and close to the fire, hunched and brooding. He fiddles and fumbles and lights another cigarette.

“That’s it?” Reno asks, stalking over from the tent. “You’re just gonna _leave_ him in there? No rigorous examination? You’re not gonna stick by his side? Make sure I don’t slither in there…”

“He’s exhausted, like you said.”

“Sure, but… What the fuck? What’s his problem? What do _you_ think about all this? He’s not doing great. I’m worried about him. He’s clearly got something going on. Can you… you know... see something inside him?”

Zack gives him long silence and many hearty puffs of white-grey.

“Come on, man,” Reno sighs, taking up a spot far enough from his reach. “Talk to me.”

“You didn’t… _mess_ with him... while you were in Shinra Tower, did you?”

Reno’s untimely silence in remembering his untimely dream works against him.

Zack doesn’t start to take it well. He’s tensing and bowing, soon to be boiling.

Reno rushes in to save his ass, blurting out, “That’s what’s got you bothered? I _wanted_ to. Oh shit, I thought about it, man. I thought about it every _fucking day_ until you showed up. I _still_ think about it... But, that’s all I did. I feel pretty shitty about it, because he was… a body... I’m not exactly put together, or wholesome, or remotely savable... but, I _didn’t_ touch him. Honest.”

Zack eases only a hair, the boiling put on the backburner.

With that, the plug pulled, Reno decides to go all in, just like he and Cloud got to moments before. The chance is more than perfect for clearing the air between them, and it's been a long time coming. "And, because I'm an idiot… I've kissed him like, four times in all." That doesn't seem to help right off, but he goes on, stammering to steady, "I, uh... didn't know about you the first time. To be honest, I still don't care… He paid me back and bit my lip the next time, if it makes you feel any better. The third time was a thank you, because he saved my butt… And the fourth… well, that wasn't _entirely_ my fault."

Zack takes a steady breath in and a steady breath out.

“I hit on him relentlessly because it’s my nature. And he’s hot. Shit, I hit on _you_. It doesn’t mean I’m going to rip him away from you. I’m just... challenging you. For the most part. It’s really up to him anyway, and I think you’re safe. Trust me. I’m just… fucking around. I’m not sociable, or house trained, so… I’m gonna ruffle some feathers. I guess what I’m saying is…” He takes a staggered breath in, exhaling everything at once. “My bad.”

“Alright,” Zack answers.

“Alright?” Reno repeats, expressing surprise. He shrugs and hisses, rubbing his shoulder. “Really though… I’m _worried_ about him. Is there anything you can see?”

“No,” Zack replies, too quick and too deadpan.

“Okay, fine. Good.” Reno shifts, reaching for more fodder, more filler, more conversation to save him from thinking his own secret thoughts. He also wants to see just how far he can push Zack. Because he’s Reno. And he’s looking for a distraction. “The fuck happened in Corel, man?”

“I was… pissed off.”

“Oh yeah? Think we got that…”

“I had a…” He declines, rethinks, and starts fresh. “I thought Sephiroth was in the tent.”

“Okay… It’s getting a little better.”

“He ran me through.”

“Like… uh?” Reno makes a vague gesture, his mind always in the gutter.

“With his _sword_ ,” Zack says and then clarifies further, his brow creasing. “The Masamune.”

Reno nods. “Right… So... then you decided to just… _go off?_ Simple as that.”

“I guess.”

“Do you not keep track of what you do?”

“I’ve kind of... stopped trying.”

“Maybe you _should_.”

“The more I’ve tried… the crazier I get. I can’t retain a lot anymore. I’m a… glass over filled or something. Everything that isn’t mako is just… brimming over and poured out. It’s—”

“What’s your favourite colour?”

“Blue.”

Reno grins. “Who was your first kiss?”

“My best friend.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Boy.”

“Are you an only child?”

“Yeah.”

Reno’s grin fades. “Do you care at all that my brother’s dead?”

“Yes…”

Reno affords himself, and maybe Zack, a five second break, before moving on and asking: “How many times did you want to punch me just now?”

“Can’t I just tell you the intensity of the punch?”

“Like… a 1 to 10 sort of thing?”

“It’d be in the six figures.” 

“Oh, shit,” Reno exclaims. “We’re getting somewhere.”

Zack puffs out his smelly smoke. He coughs lightly, clearing his sticky throat.

“Would you really fuck me into a coma?” Reno presses.

“Properly motivated…”

“Interesting...” 

“Don’t get any fucking ideas,” Zack growls.

“It’s cool, man. Nothing you wouldn’t enjoy.”

If only Zack could roll his eyes. “Were you not breastfed as a child?” he asks.

“Huh?” Reno huffs.

“You just seem to need a lot of physical attention…”

“Maybe I do. You don’t seem to get enough either.”

“Not the right kind anyway…”

“You gonna flip out on us if you sleep again?”

“I… don’t know,” Zack answers, tone honest and lengthy and loaded, quickly advancing to scathing and annoyed. “Maybe if you keep your dick in your pants.”

“Man, fuck you,” Reno jabs, lightly enough. “You’re the one who needs to tone it down.”

“What did I tell you?” Zack quizzes, resurfacing an unpleasant truth.

_He’s mine._

Reno glances away. “You’re so irritating. You’re so _fucking_ …” He shakes his hands in front of him, mimicking a strangling motion, trying to find the best, boldest word. “I try to hate you… I _do_ hate you, but I also… fucking... _admire_ you, man.” He turns to Zack, giving him the opportunity to see the sincerity in his face if he still can (and wants to). “You’re this shining beam of goodness. You’re a true soldier. You follow orders, you play by the rules, you have morals, for the most part, and you get the shit kicked out of you for it, but you just… keep... _going_.”

Zack smokes his cigarette to the very end, tossing the remaining butt to the hungry flames.

Reno only goes on, expressing his view to the end too. “Of course, that’s not to say I could ever forgive you getting my brother killed by association, or winning Cloud, or smashing my phone, and my ego, and my collarbone, and actually _teaching_ me something…”

“You say you’ve changed yet you bring it up at every chance.”

“I’m working it out of my system…”

“More importantly… _You’re_ jealous too,” Zack discerns.

“Damn straight I’m fucking jealous.”

“Don’t be. I’m not a legend. This job… sucks. I haven’t seen a paycheck in months.”

“Hah! Neither have I, yo… Think they’ll still give us worker’s comp?”

“They fucking better.”

“Seriously....” Reno agrees, trailing off. He shrugs, groans at his hurt, and then slaps his thighs once, palms down. “Okay. Good talk.” He gets to his feet, taking it easy on his damaged shoulder, and looks down his nose at Zack. “You, uh… keep an _eye_ out. As best you can. I think... I’m gonna go look for some water now. We’re gonna need it.”

“In Gongaga?”

“Yup.”

“Don’t bring anyone back here,” Zack warns, angling his head his way.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Reno answers, calling back deceit and desire.

“Good,” Zack confirms.

Reno frowns to himself as he turns to leave camp.

 

 

_Status: Unknown - Location: Uncertain_

He’s in his own bed, he’s back home, and it’s morning, but he doesn’t want to get up. He doesn’t have much of a reason anymore. There’s no one waiting for him. No one to talk to and no one to wish for. No one to look up to and guide him into greatness. Not yet. Not really. So, he lies there staring up at his ruined, fire-damaged ceiling until he knows Sephiroth is there too.

He’s collecting and starting to spill over. He’s on the fringes peaking in, standing on the sidelines, chiding and cheering and urging to be closer. He’s crackling under his skin. He’s a rush of an earthy aroma. He wants to break through the veil and stir him. He wants to do more than stir him. He wants to fill him up. He wants to eat him up. He wants to leave nothing left.

He becomes a figure, a solid enough being to cast a shadow, and that shadow falls over Cloud’s face. As Sephiroth leans down to him, he closes his eyes, not wanting to join the scene and be a part of the action. Closed lips meet his left eyelid, delicate and warm and wicked, the disconcerting deed waking him right up.

He doesn’t feel wholly in control when he comes back around. He blinks both eyes wide open, the world bright and shining on the other side but unclear, gauzy, waxy. He feels… fuzzy and free floating, and there’s a buzzing tension in the air, a sort of closeness. It’s all wrong.

He rises like a shot fired.

_No, no, no, no._

Reno gets to him first. “Hey.”

“Where is he?” Cloud prompts.

“He's outside.”

Cloud does his very best to believe him, relaxing only a little to drop back.

“I’ve got some water,” Reno offers.

Cloud sits right up, threatening a white-out, a shake and reset, but he takes the bottle eagerly. It’s half full and not enough to quench his undying thirst. “Outside?” he stresses after a huge gulp, returning the container to Reno empty.

“Look for yourself. Although he might be pacing.”

“I don’t really… want to go out there…”

“Yeah, I don’t blame you.”

“How did you... get that?” Cloud asks, pointing to the empty water bottle.

Reno smiles. It’s one of his more sly and slithering ones, not exactly nice, and not meant to be, but somehow it’s all-too appealing and promising, and Cloud flushes. “I snuck into Gongaga last night. Everyone was groggier than _me_ , go figure. Someone’s going to be missing their lunch though… Do you mind?” He’s indicating the crunchy spot of needles and branches next to him.

“How did it look?” Cloud asks, meaning the condition of their upcoming misfortune. He shakes his head to gesture Reno on, because he was still waiting. That traitorous head of his clears and then crashes, stealing his vision and replacing it no better than it was before. Cloud can hope he will improve all he wants, day to day, but he’s still showing no signs.

“Turbulent…” Reno sighs, coming down to rest on his side. “We’ve decided to wait out the day and go in tonight. Well… _I’ve_ been pushing _we_ … But...” He stretches to make himself comfortable, having settled far removed, his back in full view, face turned away. He’s going to certain lengths not to be misconstrued in any way, or tempted to roll, or creep, or spy. “I promised I’d be on my best behaviour if I could just lie down…”

“I’ve been out all night?” Cloud asks.

“And then some…”

“He’s... really out there?”

“Yes, _Cloud_ , shit. He didn’t leave you.”

“I’m... sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Reno reassures, giving him some slack. “You want me to call for him?”

“No…” Cloud mumbles.

Reno rests there. The tent smells heavily of leaves and pine and faintly of him, the substance of which consists mostly of sweat and Zack’s lingering smoke. Cloud smells too, but Reno’s is different, better. He’s got his hood down under his head for a pillow. The curve of his back, the line of his neck, the shock of red hair, it’s doing something to Cloud. It’s shaking up another heat flush that stays, smoldering in his bones. It’s not an alien urge, but it is where Reno’s concerned. But then, maybe not.

He eyes the nape of his neck, wondering what his flesh would taste like. Just how salty. Just how different. The pine and sweat and smoke overcast deepens, overwhelms, and then changes, softens, becoming something not unlike tea and spice… and blood.

Maybe Cloud’s a passive, a submissive, a born bottom, but he wants whatever Reno’s had coming for him. All at once, all this time, all his talk and pressure and insistence and adoration. Reno’s made it clear, he’s laid it on thick. Cloud will muffle his cries and gasps so Zack won’t hear them. It’s a sudden and alarming thrill. A sudden and alarming want. He knows it’s not his own. It’s Sephiroth under his skin, pushing and pressing. He knows he’s trying to ruin them.

“Just _how_ tired are you?” he hears himself prod.

“Why?” Reno returns, shifting to glance over. “You gonna send me off right?”

“Maybe.”

“Shit... You know I’m _joking_. I don’t wanna lose anymore fingers…”

“He... won’t know.”

“How do _you_ know? He’s right out there.”

“Because he’s probably pacing…”

Cloud’s already crawled to Reno, now peering down from above, from the side, from the dim. His pulse is thumping, his every muscle tingling, intent building, resolve solid. It’s no better than watching through a window. Cloud’s high up, floating, dissipating. He’s always so helpless.

Reno looks enthralled and concerned in profile. He’s tensed but he hasn’t moved. He’s observant, he’s locked in, and here he goes giving him some valuable resistance. “Where’s this coming from? You just fired up from last night? Maybe _I’m_ just… _really_ tired...”

“I’m… _really_ grateful…” And Cloud _is_ (absolutely, no doubt), but he’s still not himself. This isn’t him talking. These aren’t his words or his actions. These are distorted thoughts. They’re the ones he brushes under the rug: the half-thoughts, the mind killers, Sephiroth.

“As much as I love defying your soldier boy… I’m _trying_ …” Reno mutters.

But, it’s all over. Cloud seals their fate.

Their mouths meet dryly but are soon satisfyingly wet. He flattens and straddles Reno, heart now galloping. Their tongues rub and ride, coil and connect. It’s just the solid rush of air in their heads now, and the sanguine slick and slide of Cloud turning to find _that_ angle, _that_ opening, _that_ perfect stretch, licking long down Reno’s entire tongue, forcing his head back, his body compliant. And Reno doesn’t fight. He’s too fucking beat to resist. He latches on.

Cloud rocks and rolls over him, soon feeling the strong outline of Reno contained in his tight jeans. Cloud’s sweatpants do nothing to hide his mounting desire. He melds them together, finding sufficient repeating friction, risking a moan. Their cocks glance and press and fill, never really meeting. Reno digs his clawed fingers (just two jagged points on one side) into Cloud’s equally jagged hipbone. The air is moist and hot and not enough. Their restricted breath is heady, hectic, lacking. The smell of tea and blood is dominant. This is dangerous, but Cloud adheres to nothing but his want and need, giving in, giving himself over.

He affords Reno no time to protest and slides down the front of him to come face-to-jeans with his restrained cock. He takes his time undoing the simple barrier, popping the single button free exaggeratedly and then looking up to catch Reno’s strained expression. He unzips him slowly, sending Reno’s head back in an impatient and distressed toss. The vibrations must be intense, and the waiting, the wanting, the potential of Zack rushing in at anytime...

“ _Stop_ ,” Reno tries, flushed and full. Cloud’s hand has wrapped around his cock, his parted mouth is inches away, breath ghosting, teasing, too close. “You’ve… _got_ to…” But, that’s all she wrote. He swallows down his protest, choking out a groan, because Cloud’s swallowing _him_.

He laps him up, licks him wet, wanting to suck him clean. His mouth floods with his salty tang, his warmth, his smooth and unique texture. He's not any bigger than Zack, if he had to guess. He opens wide and works his way down, slicking his tongue over, the motion fluid and steady.

Reno mewls.

When Zack busts in he grabs for Cloud, not Reno, because he already knows what's up. He saw it building, just as Cloud felt it building, thrumming and thumping in his flesh and bones. The monster’s eating him up, forcing him out. Sephiroth’s under his skin, rushing in his blood, reaching for his soul, burning him away. This might be his last chance. His last stand.

“Oh, that’s _fucked up!_ ” Reno howls from inside the shelter.

Cloud’s stunned by the sudden cold. It’s early morning outside, crisp and frigid and damp. His numbed senses start rolling back, Sephiroth easing off, letting him go alone into his fate. Let the shame pour on. Let the hate and anger burn his skin. He can still taste Reno on his lips. They’re wet and swollen because of him. He’s been caught in the act. An act he didn’t perpetrate. “This isn’t… That wasn’t…” he tries to explain, standing, breath pluming white. He’s secretly thankful Zack doesn’t have any eyes to look hurt and confused and disgusted at him.

He doesn’t want to look at him though, he doesn’t even stick around to scold or question. And that stirs Cloud up. His shame is flipped to rage. He collects himself, clenches a fist and surges forward, chasing Zack. “That wasn’t _me!_ I wouldn’t do that to you. I’m not like that!” he howls. “That's not evidence enough for you? He’s screwing with me! With us!” He waits for an answer, an eruption badly contained. “You don’t have… _anything_ to say?”

Zack doesn't. He’s stopped retreating. He's stern indifference. He’s a cold shoulder.

“You can _see_ it. I know you can. Maybe you heard us, but that’s how you knew. That’s why you grabbed _me_. You said I’m golden. What colour is _he_?” He waits, but Zack gives him nothing. “He made me do this! What if… What if next time he kills both of you because you can't fucking hurt me? What then?”

“Nothing, I guess… because we're dead,” Zack answers.

“For fuck’s sake! Take my eye! Please!”

But, Zack shakes his bare and busted head, _no, no, no_.

“You can't leave me like this! Don't run away from _me!_ I know it hurts, but you didn't kill him, Zack… He's right _here!_ He’s in my _head_. He’s not just laughing at me! He’s laughing at _you_.”

“Fine!” Zack roars, and he turns, making abrupt contact.

“Hey,” Reno starts, now close by, now in contest. “Let’s just…”

“You want it out so badly?” Zack demands, breath wispy vapor. He has to tilt down to level on Cloud’s eyes, jaw set, brow knitted; abhorrent and adored.

“ _Yes_ ,” Cloud confirms, having to look up to meet his clean bandage.

“No,” Reno disputes. “Fuck no.”

Zack is tense, he's rigid, and he's lifting both of his arms to reach for Cloud. From the looks of it, he might just do the job with his bare hands (picture one hand pressed to cheek for stability and then a thumb to eye socket). Reno does, because he’s on to Zack in a second.

He springs in from behind and gathers Cloud up, pulling and containing with both arms. He's not listening to Zack's earlier _hands off_ remark, he’s just trying to save Cloud, to protect him. With his arms curled around Cloud’s chest (a reverse bear hug), he drags him clear.

Cloud doesn’t want this kind of saving. He’s stuck. He won’t bend. He resists and thrashes, kicking, trying to be free, trying to make his own choice, trying to live it down.

“This is crazy!” Reno yells, jetting white breath. He releases him, catching him again to spin him around. “Stop!” he scolds. Reno’s strength is there, and his bossy build, and his conviction to never stand by and watch. Both hands latch onto Cloud’s biceps, holding him fast, quelling his fight. “Neither of you are in the right mind!”

Zack eases and drops his arms, making no other immediate move.

On the other hand, Cloud, he’s furious, and serious, and out of options. It’s _his_ time for action, livid and precise. He’s done being helpless. He has all the conviction in the world. He’s overflowing with it. He has to follow through. He can’t stand around anymore, scared and terrorized. He’s committed, he’s okay, he’s steady. This is it.

“I’ve got to do this,” he assures Reno, plucking his fingers from his arms.

Reno relents, if only thinking his even reaction and calm inflection are signs that everything will be okay. He’s shooting quick and damning glances to Zack meanwhile. Cloud uses these glances to step away from them both, buffering their distance, Reno not yet noticing.

He makes himself ready, fisting a hand and then jabbing a thumb out as if hitchhiking, but he’s not looking for a ride, he’s aiming for the hitchhiker in his head, the one right inside his left eye. He’s going to scoop Sephiroth out himself, and he’s going to make things balanced again.


	33. Chapter 33

_Status: Unknown - Location: Miles outside Gongaga_

Lo and behold, he’s going down for the count. He drops into Reno’s already lifted and arriving arms, getting nowhere near scooping his own eye out and saving the day, or ending it in any kind of gruesome, heroic fashion. Sephiroth receives the message, cuts the power, and stops the entire act as soon as Cloud’s arm is halfway (almost there, almost realized). Cloud drops like a sack of potatoes, eyes wide open.

And now he’s right back where he started.

He was too afraid to do it himself, so he had to ask Zack, but he refused on the grounds of personal anguish. Cloud flipped, got desperate and sloppy, and turned to bribe Reno (which he had so hoped would have been successful) but he refused too, on grounds of personal anguish. He finally tried himself, twice now, but to no avail. He’s trapped. This is demoralizing.

“You’ve got to stop doing that,” Reno lectures from over him. “Are you anemic? I once had the hots for this anemic girl in my neighbourhood… That was an interesting time.”

“I’m not anemic.”

“You’re pale enough to be.”

“I'm just _pale_.”

They’re together again inside the tent, causing a minor rush of anxiety in Cloud. To his benefit, Reno’s not making any sudden movements or constant eye contact, so the feeling eventually passes and dissolves. He is comforted little. The knowledge is still there, and the distant foggy memory of helplessness and desire. He might have clarity now, but when will that finally come to an end? He’s cursed. He’s a disaster pending. He’s the real baggage.

Reno’s not spoken for several beats now. The unusual silence forces Cloud to look up at his face at last. He doesn’t get a chance to scan and run, he looks and lingers. The expression he finds there is not complex, it’s tortured and torn. Reno’s having real trouble.

“I feel like… I shouldn’t talk to you now _or_ let you out of my sight,” he explains, scowling and scratching his head, and then squaring to meet with Cloud’s eyes. “I don’t know... what might get you bothered. And that bothers _me_. I can’t _not_ talk to you. I can hardly talk to _him_. He doesn’t listen to me at all. I mean… neither do _you_ , but at least I get participation.” He sighs, deflated, wincing at an old hurt still aching. “So, that’s where I’m at... Excellent blowjob, by the way… Uh, shit.” Reno's eyes track away and he wilts further, wincing more pronounced, defeat verging comical.

Cloud can’t help but smile lightly, appropriate or not, himself or not. He’s almost always liked Reno (and his brother), to a degree. He can’t say he liked his occupation, and he can’t say he’s given him much of a chance. After all their time and toil together he knows he can trust him, he knows he worries about him, but he’s never considered him because of Zack, and that just now threatens to crush the very life out of his chest. Reno’s sacrificed life and limb for him, just like Zack. They’ll never admit how alike they are…

Cloud keeps his faint smile, doing a bang up job at keeping it light. “You know... kinda wish I could have finished…”

“I dunno... I come buckets. Oh, look at the time...” Reno rambles, getting onto the balls of his feet to leave all the same. “You get some rest. Don’t move. Don’t get up. I mean it when I say _relax_. Or I’ll hurt you. I’m gonna… Uh. I’ll be out here… if you need me.”

“ _Reno_ ,” Cloud calls, sitting upright.

Reno stops at the shelter’s opening, apprehensive. He used to know a steady stream of smooth and cool. He’s just himself now, half a twin. He’s been shaved down to the essential programs. He’s raw nerve and tangled hair, cuts and bruises, mud and sweat. “Yo,” he responds.

“You can still talk to me,” Cloud offers.

“That actually reminds me…” Reno mumbles, suddenly turning to face him. He starts going through his rucksack tucked among the leaves and twigs, stopping once he’s found something small and dark: a piece of fabric. “Hold that thought…” he says, and then crawls outside.

Muffled voices, and now Reno’s slipping back inside the shelter. “Sorry. I only wore it once, remember? Soldier boy’s had a naked head for too long. He mentioned that earlier. He’s actually been _talking_ to me. He’s _chatty_. What you said got me thinking.”

“You gave him your cap?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re a... piece of work…” Cloud mumbles.

“I have my moments,” Reno admits. He’s smiling, smooth enough, but then he’s wincing and solemn all over again. The smile drops, along with his head and his shoulders. He’s considering his next words. He’s waiting out his own resolve. He finally lifts his head and levels. “I wanted to tell you… I’m going on reconn again tonight. When it’s nice and quiet.”

Cloud’s reined in anxiety rears up. “Alone?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Reconnaissance.”

“I know that… but, _why?_ Why are you helping him?”

“Because… I’m such… a nice guy?”

“You _hate_ him. You’re an _opportunist_.”

“Such cutting words…”

“Yeah, but you _are_ a nice guy. Nice to _me_.”

“Listen, you really should lie back… You look pale...”

“ _You_ listen. Tell me what’s going on,” Cloud stresses, skull thumping dully. “You should be all over this. You should be trying to convince me to leave and forget him and then talking about what we’re going to do for food after... You don’t want to be here. Why help him?”

“This is why I didn’t want to talk to you...”

“Is it because he’ll be out of the picture sooner?” Now Cloud’s head is aching.

“ _More_ cutting words…”

“It’s the truth.”

“ _Fuck_ the truth,” Reno spits, all but bristling. He stares him in the face, his calm, sea-shallow-blue eyes gone dark and deep. Still a bad secret, still a hesitation, a vexation, he loudly whispers, “The truth is I love you, and you’ll never love me back.”

Cloud goes stiff. “You don’t…” he mumbles.

“I do.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Too bad.”

“I… I, uh,” Cloud stammers. He can understand lust, but not love.

“Yup,” Reno agrees. “That should help you relax, right?” And then he’s gone.

Cloud is left alone, and that’s never a good idea.

What if he sleeps? What if he dreams? What if _he_ takes over? What if Zack leaves? What if _Reno_ leaves? And he can’t go out there. Not yet. Being around Zack in any way won’t help his situation right now. He’s too ashamed, too let down: confused and corrupted. He can’t do anything about it. He can’t push it down or ride it out. He might _have_ to ride it out though. He might still be able to hold out long enough for something miraculous to happen.

Or, maybe Reno’s right, and it’s all his imagination and the waiting is the trick. Reno shouldn’t be caught up in all of this and willing to get himself killed too. For love. For want. For what?

They’re leaving tonight either way. He’s headed into the fire with him whether Zack likes it or not. Cloud made that choice long, long ago. He’s already imagined the forces and frenzy waiting for them in Zack’s hometown in fleeting, fearful detail. The Director will overpower and crush them. It’s going to be over in seconds, a blink, a dropping jaw. Cloud sees barrage after barrage of bullets and shreds of flesh and bone. At least he can take Sephiroth down with him.

It’s with these thoughts clouding his head that Zack finally appears, slipping into the tent with him long after Reno made his unceremonious leave. Any and all of Reno’s stirred up anxiety looks like a damn vacation compared to the icy gooseflesh Zack produces. He riles up Cloud’s fear and his need to hide. It twists in his bowels. It drops his heart to the floor.

He moves in like an ominous shroud, looming, giant and smoky, coming to rest closer than Reno dared before. He’s as battle scarred and travel filthy as they all are, and more so. He’s bloody from Corel. He’s scarred from Sephiroth and Shinra. He should be frightening, but he’s always so much more... disheartening. He’s a train wreck collided with a train wreck.

Zack doesn’t move for a time or speak a word. He might not be able to tell if Cloud’s awake because of the severity of his condition. He hovers there: a shade, an outline, a memory, a smell, a quotation. And it’s in that moment that Cloud realizes, yes, he _is_ afraid of him.

He’s afraid Zack won’t love him for long. He’s afraid Zack will leave him. He’s afraid Zack won’t be able to think about him without disgust and anger and shame layered in. He’s afraid of what Zack thinks. And not _just_ afraid… he’s terrified. He’s _petrified_. Zack could be about to tell him it’s over. Whatever they had is done and gone. And he had just been talking about trust...

He doesn’t give him a chance to do any speaking though, because Cloud springs up and latches onto him, hugging him, needing him to be close. He has to make it right and apologize, even if Zack knows, even if _he_ knows—it wasn’t him, but a trick, a ploy. He was (and still is) a puppet. He has to make amends and explain his case anyway, but instead, he falters and clings and whines, returning to being helpless, now breathless. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m…”

“ _Stop_ ,” Zack grits, solid and warm against him. “Stop being _sorry_.”

Cloud squeezes him harder for his troubles. He sets his jaw and doesn’t whine anymore. He doesn’t try to reason or improve his position, he just hangs on, like any time before, like with anyone important before. He readies for the fallout, firmly believing that he’s at fault and owed everything coming. They all leave, they all turn away and choose another path, but his grip remains, and in gripping, he’s lost bits of himself, forfeiting what’s already vapor.

He’s been alone from day one, and the sad thing is, that’s _not_ the sad thing. Oh, no. The real tragedy is that he hasn’t even had his own back from day one. He’s treated himself just the same as anyone else. He can’t really blame himself. He’s learned from what he knows. So, here he is, yet again, holding on and hoping, unwilling to move ahead and losing more of himself. He isn’t hoping for himself though, because he’s gripping for all he’s worth and hoping for Zack.

He can’t help himself. He can’t live with himself. He can’t live with the silence. He opens his mouth and tries again. “Reno’s been after me from day one. I don’t... really hate it. I don’t think I do. Not entirely. It’s mostly harmless. It’s kinda… nice. You know… to be wanted. And… _kind of_ respected... I guess. I don’t think… I can trust what I feel though. I don’t know... if it’s me... I know I wasn’t… _thinking_ right in that moment. I felt hazy. I could feel… the _want_ … the _rush_... But, it was like I was... watching from above. I was floating… away... And then you…”

Zack doesn’t readily hold him back. He’s hardly leaning into him, maybe even fighting to pull away, but his head starts to dip and his shoulders start to ease, and then he jolts and collects him, flouting the calm. He brings his arms around to crush Cloud close. His face he presses into his collarbone, letting the moment and Cloud’s words settle before taking a deep breath and lifting his chin to speak into Cloud’s ear, every punch, every syllable, a warm and moist gust. “He’s green. Emerald green. Like his eyes. Or mako. He comes and goes. I know… because he disrupts your normal glow. It’s like… he’s a storm cloud... and he blocks you out.”

Cloud listens, having little choice. His spine and his guts and his flesh begin to tingle a sweat itch, a rapid burn, a coiling confusion of misfires and dead ends.

“I know… that wasn’t entirely you. I know… Reno’s… _Reno_ ,” Zack explains. “That’s… not really okay, but it’s... It’s not… I _can’t_ do it. I can’t hurt you. I wouldn’t have. I _won’t_. And I won’t let you or anyone else. There’s gotta be… a _cure_. I’m sure, for right now... that means nothing good. If he stays in there... if _it_ stays in there… like you said, I don’t _know_ what’s going to happen. You could... kill us. You could... jump off a cliff. I don’t know. It’s because of _me_ though...” He stops on that, taking a breath, turning to cough out his smoker’s grime and then continuing. “I’m not angry with you. Don’t be sorry. Don’t ever be sorry. He’s sure as _shit_ laughing at me… I can _hear_ him too. It’s my fault. I did this. So, don’t _you_ be sorry… I’m not apologetic... I’m SORRY. I’m sad, downcast, pitiful… and everything else.”

“Everyone’s _sorry!_ I can’t do anything about that either! _I’m_ sad and downcast and pitiful... I’m not sure I can take it anymore… What if… after you leave… I kill Reno… and then myself?”

“ _What if?_ ” Zack rumbles, annoyed, leaning away. “What if I die in my sleep before I even _get_ home? What if we’re attacked and overrun while we’re talking? What if Reno jumps in here and clucks like a fucking chicken? What if I choose to run and run and run… Fuck the fucking _what if_ … You worry too much, Cloud. I know this _is_ worrisome… But, sometimes you just gotta…”

“Let it go?” Reno asks from the open tent flap. “And... listen to your own advice?”

It’s only Cloud who looks, Zack remains put.

“Sorry, heard my name. Couldn’t help myself…” Reno mumbles.

“Sure…” Zack mutters back, all rumbled out and disentangling from Cloud.

“You should really let him rest… And I gotta talk to you, soldier boy,” Reno says, and then he disappears. He pops back in, just a disembodied head adding, “You got two minutes.”

Cloud nods to him, giving an acknowledgement, because Zack isn’t going to unless agitated further. Reno lingers though, eyeing Cloud as if to inquire on his condition. When Cloud nods again (guts warming, face flushing), showing his understanding—Reno’s off.

Zack waits a long beat, probably making sure Reno’s occupied (at least distracted and far enough removed) before taking up his cause once more. He’s trying his very best to leave on a bad note. “It’s a... knife in my side. I’ve felt like I’ve been injured from the day I met you. You’re right. Love feels like dying. I can’t… make any decisions. I can’t follow common sense. I can’t _save you_. I can only close the door on Shinra and bury my parents.”

“We can do this…” Cloud tries. “We can do this together. I feel like… I’ve had to be the voice of reason. To a point. And now… I’m _not_ , because I’m not myself anymore. I don’t know how much you should listen to me. I don’t know what words are going to stick and last and cause harm… But, we can do this. Reno’s here. I’m here. Right now... We can all go in there.”

“I can’t let you…”

“You _need_ our help.”

“That’s… no better than taking your eye,” Zack argues.

“We can give you a _chance_.”

“ _You_ need to survive, Cloud. YOU. You do. That’s it. No more. I could care less about Reno or myself, although he _is_ growing on me... Like a fungus, or…”

“I heard that!” Reno crows.

“Go _fuck_ yourself, Reno!” Zack shouts back, but there’s no venom contained, just volume. He levels again to give Cloud a tilting and terrible smile, forced and fragile. “You were right _again_.” The smile shrinks and dies. “He’s… a horny dick, but he’s better than most… So... I need _you_ to survive... and carry on and be happy and find your place in life… Even if that means you’re stuck with _him_. I made my bed and now I’ve got to lie in it. And, to tell you the truth... I’m _tired_.”

“I can’t _abandon_ you. What if I'm right _again?_ You can’t leave me like this…”

“You’re not _abandoning_ me, you’re following my wishes. And I...”

“Wrap it up, guys...” Reno recommends from outside (lightly enough).

“You’re letting me go in there with a clear head,” Zack explains. “An _almost_ clear head...”

“ _Fine_ ,” Cloud snaps, feeling the sting of hurt and loneliness and loss corrupt. He draws back into himself and folds his arms over his chest. He doesn’t want to look at him. He doesn’t want to hear Zack say, over and over again, in so many words: _I’m leaving you_.

So, in shining, cowardly fashion, Cloud relents, and he lets Zack have his argument. This might just be preparation for when he does turn away and never comes back.

Zack leans over and pecks him on the top of the head before exiting to have his conversation with Reno outside. Cloud remains inside like a good boy and twiddles his thumbs. He tries not to eavesdrop at first, but goes right back to it, unfriendly with his own thoughts and fears.

Soon, he’s chewing those thumbs, considering his nails, and listening to Reno go on about tactics, probabilities and contingencies. Zack’s contributions are few and far between.

He stays put for as long as he can stand, less and less willing to be alone, less and less willing to let Zack _do_ it alone. He can’t take it anymore, and his fingers can’t either. The way Reno’s going on makes it no better than listening to his own internal dialogue. He’s bringing up every one of Cloud’s terrors in unbiased, jabbing detail. And it’s killing him.

Cloud crawls free of the tent and joins their party. There’s no hope for rest or peace.

 

 

An hour or so after recovering the first time, they’re sitting around the campfire just a burned up ash heap once again. It’s early morning. Cloud crashed out in the early half of the previous night and remained crashed out the night through. That gave Reno the time to look at their odds in town and get them the precious water. That also gave him and Zack some time to talk and correct their shit to a sustained level. They’ve almost been playing nice. 

As it is, they might be putting themselves at risk if they hang around and wait out the day, but they need the extra rest, and the quiet, and the chance to recoup however they may (and convince Zack to leave, or let them help). Reno claims the Director won’t expect them for days yet anyway. He might be under the impression they’ve been on foot this entire time. They could have the edge regardless. It’s enough to let Cloud think of relaxing.

Reno sighs, stretching his legs out long. He’s been talking non-stop, hitting the Gongaga subject lighter and sideways (and war stories, and people that piss him off), all the while, watching Cloud's reactions well and unabashedly, making sure of his good standing. It goes on one-sided for the most part. He is just now starting to show signs of quieting and meandering.

It’s not been unwelcome. There’s a certain enjoyable cadence to how Reno talks, even if it is mostly distressing bullshit. It’s given Zack and Cloud the chance to listen and flatline and share food too, so one does not complain. And it’s _actual_ food, not the prepackaged crap they got in Junon. Along with the water Reno sourced half a day before, came a whole orange. Once surfaced, it disappears in a flash between them all, too devilishly sweet to last.

“This guy threatened me with a skateboard once…” Reno mumbles, trailing off to yawn.

“Did you take his bubblegum?” asks Zack, wiping his sticky hands on his pants.

“Well, no… But it _was_ over cigarette smoke.”

“That’s not a bad idea…” Zack remarks, pointing a finger at him.

“Oh, you dick,” Reno snarls (mostly for show).

Zack finds and lights his cigarette. He nods, exuding the exhaust from those mending nostrils.

“I hate the smell…” Reno complains, turning away.

“We know,” Cloud comments now. “You tell us _every_ time.”

“It’s just a… memory thing. Makes me think of Wutai, and I don’t like it.”

“What’s in Wutai?” Cloud prods.

“Nothing. Not anymore.”

“We need a different subject...” Cloud suggests in a grumble, stretching his back.

Zack hums his approval.

“Yeah, I think we’ve heard enough about dead parents for a lifetime, and me whining,” Reno agrees. “In the interest of lightening the mood and decompressing we shouldn’t be talking about shit we can’t change and don’t wanna do… We should be focusing on happier things… Like, Zack, what’s your favourite position?” He licks his fingers of remaining citrus, eyebrows at full attention, smirk on a low simmer.

“My what?”

“Just humour me… What’s your favourite sexual position?”

“How’s this going to help?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I guess… From behind…” Zack offers.

“Elaborate.”

Cloud shifts where he sits. He set up on the ground among the weeds, legs thrown out, left arm bracing most of his leaned weight, fingers fruit sticky too, and collecting dirt. He’s cool and he’s calm. He’s not hearing, tasting, or smelling anything (too) upsetting, so that’s a bonus. That could change at any wicked moment though. There might yet be a state of alarm. For now, he watches their comedy play out: Zack and Reno across from him, Reno perched on his rock.

“ _Elaborate_. Come on, don’t fight it. Tell us what you like, man,” Reno urges. “Spill over.”

“It depends…” Zack says, taking the time to have another smoky drag and exhale. “I like different things at different times...” 

“Alright, fine. I’ll go first...” Reno says, focusing entirely on Cloud. He spreads his feet and hunches over from atop his rock, as if readying to tell a scary campfire story. “I... like it… rough. Just picture… warm hands and fingers, rubbing and rolling, and then the biting of fingernails. Your breath sucks in and you shiver. You’re wanting for more, needing it, craving it, the sensation is burning you away. Your hands fist in hair. The possible pain and pleasure—”

“Pain?” Zack asks, exhaling smoke for a second time through Reno’s speech.

“I said I like it rough,” Reno offers, sitting upright and looking at him sideways. 

Zack’s grin is downright devious, and something suspect.

Cloud’s heart thumps a hard beat. He shifts to sit upright too, tucking his legs underneath him.

“Just… _how_ rough?” Zack prods, cocking his head, gesturing the trailing cigarette.

Reno is visibly struggling to order his thoughts now, but he’s keeping it cool enough, smooth enough. He blanches, recovers, and slicks his unwashed (and otherwise hot rod red but now more of a blood clot red) hair back over his skull, loose and tangled, fingers almost catching. “Whatever you can dish out, buddy.”

Aggressive is a good word. Or explosive. Or alarming. Either one, really. That’s what comes to Cloud’s mind as he watches them from across the fire’s remains. It’s like he’s not even there. It’s like he could be sleeping safe inside the shelter, like he never woke up, and this is a scene brought on by his damaged psyche and the sounds of them speaking.

Zack’s response is _aggressive_. He tosses his cigarette and springs on Reno, not having to go far. He dethrones him of his sitting stone in one motion, arm crossing his chest, a low-hanging clothesline, and knocks him to his back in the tall grass. There’s a breathy groan from Reno on impact and then Zack is descending, moving over him and crouching. Reno’s a kicked leg and a muffled protest after that, followed by a sharp yelp.

“Zack!” Cloud’s yelping too, springing to his feet, and not gracefully. He skids and clambers, now hesitating, his view obstructed by Reno's rock. “Stop!” he demands, finally bolting ahead to break up the dispute, purely based off the sounds of increasing struggle.

Zack has Reno pinned beneath him, wiggling and worming. His right forearm is braced across Reno’s leftmost collarbone, his left hand fisted in Reno’s long and loose red hair at the root. He’s putting heavy weight across that shoulder and clavicle, the one he busted days earlier, the one that’s been outwardly paining Reno. He’s wrenching that deep scarlet hair, forcing Reno’s neck and back into a mild arch, and Reno groans with it, muffled, taken, totalled. He kicks his leg and paws at Zack’s slippery sleeves, frantic and yet feeble, because he’s trapped inside a vicious and hungry kiss he’s returning just as angrily, just as needily, accepting on every level.

“Guys…” Cloud breathes, seeing the truth, fear and action far from remembered.

He finds himself floating closer, locked in, the image surreal. Reno cries out as he drifts around that large boulder, blocking them for seconds and then revealing them again in whole on the other side, unbelievable and muddled. Reno is muffled no more and Zack is looking down on him from above, his grip and weight easing not at all.

“Like that? Rough enough for you?” Zack presses.

Reno squirms and pants in answer, his lidded eyes deep blue, dilated: a moody sky. His lips are parted and tooth bit, smeared with the beading traces of hyper red, more like his hair used to be. His face twists to real hurt, teeth flashing pink stained gaps, and then relaxes, only to fight again. His fingers work to ease the pressure, his bent leg kicks and snaps. He knows anguish, every colour of corrosive pain and dismay, and a wash of hazy, messy want. “Fuck, fuck, _ow_.”

And now Zack makes to retreat, easing off and up.

Reno tosses and groans from below. “ _Ow_ , fuck... Fell on my guns.”

Cloud is rather close now, maybe too close. He crossed the border, the perimeter, the raggedy edge and moved into the unknown, only steps away from where they landed. He’s beyond safe and sound and out of the firing range, because when Zack stands, and finally acknowledges that he’d been there the entire time, it’s stunning. Hints of North Corel. Hints of ice and snow. Hints of love and want and fear and pain. Zack spots him, red on his lips, head lifting and leveling and then unmoving. Cloud freezes, blood slowing thick and hot, prey caught.

Stand or flee? Cloud has the rising thought and the very real split second decision. It's the tormented side of him, and maybe a bit of self-preservation too, that says _run_. A part attached to and stained by Sephiroth. It must be. It must be what's making him entertain the negative idea to the point of having to muster it down. He doesn't want him near Zack. He doesn't want either of them happy. He wants turmoil and struggle. But, it's too late.

“Where _you_ goin’? You can’t leave me like this!” Reno protests from the ground.

 

 

_Status: Unknown - Location: Unknown_

Zack ignores Reno’s cries, having already bested him. His hijacked thoughts play out in rabid detail and succession. The voices in his head rave: _do it, do it, let go_. So he does, and he reaches to catch Cloud where he stands, one hand finding his bared throat, his jaw, the flesh below his ears and staying. The other slides inside his opened jacket, under his shirt, moving by trembling touch alone, stretching the fabric taut. He is fingers first, palm second, meeting and smoothing along Cloud’s side, his spine, his belly and chest, his collarbone and shoulder, and finally returning to the nape of his neck to mirror the other hand.

He tenses those hands, his fingers angling and possessing Cloud, pulling him forward from the sides of his head. He’s rocking his neck back, chin and face tilting up to meet him; a flower lifting to the sun. Zack leans down, going for his mouth, for his prize, for the gold. He knows nothing but need. This is the crumbling ruins of his resolve.

_(...let go…)_

Cloud obeys and follows, receptive, ready, and rewarding, removing all hope. Zack is just as hungry as he was with Reno, but he’s not crushing or exacting or formally unkind. He doesn’t have a point to prove here, just another rush of inspiration turned to action, demanding and urgent, expecting relief. He meshes their bodies together, hand roving again, coursing down his back to press him close. He threads filthy fingers through filthy hair. He’s lapping and licking at that orange ripe mouth, tasting Reno’s blood, and then Cloud the deeper down he goes. He expresses his desire, firm and solid, prodding Cloud in the lower abdomen, warm and heavy.

They stand and feel each other out, Zack’s neck craned and his head tilted to the side so their noses don’t bump. Cloud’s jaw is cracked wide, head back, tongue lovely wet and slick and undulating on the inside. His hands grip at Zack, latched on, a desperation. He hasn’t moved from where he caught him and Zack’s taking advantage, his own hands all over him, working and wanting to know. He’s pulling off Cloud's jacket, he’s slipping back under his shirt, he’s getting twisted up, he’s groping and pressing. Cloud’s smooth and lean heat ignites the inferno.

If he was unpredictable before, Zack's dangerous now.

They’re a blur of movements, limbs and wants, no restraint to be found between them. Zack retains lead and steps them several strides away from the boulder, and Reno, and the burned out fire. He drags Cloud down to his knees with him, the soil fine and grassy and accepting. Cloud is compliant and consoling. They’re losing track of time and temperature, just tasting and testing. They don’t feel thirsty or tired or scared or angry. They just want to know each other.

Licking and sucking, rubbing and pressing: this is easily better than worrying. This is them at it again, enthralled and worshipping, and on their knees for good measure. Zack's set on taking them all the way and making it a real religious experience. He’s going to take Cloud from behind and act out what he likes for Reno. He’s about to make it very clear.

He surfaces and exhales, rising to position Cloud facing away from him and then bending him at the waist, coaxing him to rest on his hands as well as his knees. His totem approves, left to fist the grass and grit and leaves of his homeland while he pulls both of their sweatpants down only as far as they’ll need. It’s all progressing so fast. It’s all a rush.

On the sidelines, Reno has committed to touching himself as he watches them enthralled in their pursuits. He hasn’t gotten up, he’s only moved around to prop his back against the damn stone, jeans unzipped, legs open, turgid cock in his shaking hands, aura a glorious amber.

That’s fine, he’s good. Zack’s desperate to start.

But... shouldn’t he stop? Shouldn’t _they_ stop?

_(...need, need, need…)_

He licks two fingers, tasting more orange and blood, and takes them on a mission, moving them to Cloud's rear, angled and ready. They meet heated flesh, just resting and lighting, but Cloud convulses, arms quivering, hips twitching back. He starts rocking just enough, encouraging Zack's fingers forward and into the resistance of muscle. He’s willing and able.

Zack slowly breaches him, pushing the two fingers on, feeling the stretch and the give and the pouring of heat, his other hand firmly holding Cloud’s hips fixed. He eases to the first knuckle, twisting just the slightest bit to dig deeper and afford easier, smoother entrance. He sends them on, reaching far, embedded to the limit, to the last knuckle. Cloud moans and gasps, his breath running away with him.

Zack twists the fingers again, breath now joining the rousing symphony. Cloud’s reaction is violent. He cries out and seizes, the whole thing evident through the two fingers far inside him like feelers, receptors. He stays Cloud's hips and twists his wrist now, rolling the fingers to their side, offering the sensation in a sequence. He lays them flat and then turns. Rinse and repeat.

He grins at the expedient reactions, very much similar to the first. It’s a seize, a moan, a reason to get busy. Cloud’s wanting to move against him, wanting for friction, spurring him on, but Zack restrains him and holds firm. He draws the feelers out, loving the ease of the slide and the hitching of breath and sudden complaint. He has something much better than fingers for him.

He rises up on his knees to align, drawing his cock out and level, making doubly sure beforehand that their sweatpants are shoved clear. He moves his hand from Cloud’s hip and places it at his lower back as a stabilizer, a reassurance. Zack brims with want, desire, and readiness. He can hear the torturous hyperventilation of them all, and the thumping of the blood in his ears, and the voices in his head. He’s throbbing hard, straining. He can’t see straight on top of his condition, and now Cloud’s wiggling before him, pushing back.

Zack snaps and jumps, just inches, just a lapse in control, threatening to spear Cloud too soon. He reacts with a groan and a toss of his golden head. Zack bolsters and eases away.

“Zack…” Cloud breathes, a request, a plead.

Zack’s off and rocking forward, guiding himself inside, sliding down to the base, filling Cloud loudly and well and all at once, almost appeasing the pursuit for the purist depth. Cloud chokes on his statement and cry, following it up with a whimper: a wounded thing, a destructive thing.

It's excruciating, it's addictive, and it’s not nearly enough. Zack waits there all the same, unmoving and stopped. He’s loving the glory of their hips together, enjoying every struggled breath and tremble beneath him. Cloud is lost to the sensation, the invasion, the rushing need. He’s opened to it, to _him_ , speared as far as Zack can reach. He trembles and works his hands, opened and closed, his goldenrod fingers digging into the dirt, his cheek pressed to the grass, his forearms and upper chest flat to the gravel. He’s waiting with him, his respiration increasing, spiking, his patience crumbling. If Zack doesn't do something soon, he's going to…

“Please…”

There it is. It drips out. It tears Zack down.

“Please, Zack… _Please_ …”

Reno groans and grieves close by.

Zack steels himself, leaning over Cloud’s tilted back, pressing him down further, stressing his weight and Cloud’s strength. “What’s that?” Zack prods, a hot blast of air over the back of his vulnerable neck.

“ _Please_ …” Cloud whimpers, pathetic and pining.

“Tell me what you want,” Zack instructs, keeping himself steady and solid.

Cloud and Reno both enjoy the statement, their affirmation gusted and guttural. Cloud’s is breathy and desperate. Reno’s is breathy and demanding. Zack receives a spine-tingling rush, a sudden flood, and he’s motivated enough in that moment (filled with want and pride) to lose it, to forfeit, to let go and pummel Cloud into the ground until his knees give and Reno loses his top, but somehow he holds on, he contains. He has a better idea.

He’s vitally aware that they’re all at their most vulnerable (their pants down and everything). He’s vitally aware they’re all having a session hours before _the_ final hour, out in open morning, out in full view, for no other reason than a prompt and a jab and an answer. That only seems to give him more fuel for his ravenous fire. He keeps still, he grips Cloud’s hips, he grazes his nape with his teeth and lips. Cloud quakes and his chest heaves. Reno is beside himself.

Zack gusts, “Tell me.” He can hear every breath and swallow and subtle stutter intimately expelled from here, and Cloud always sounds more pained than pleasured. Zack knows better. He rocks his hips to tease him, flexing their control, stressing the limits, stressing the pleasure and the torture, but going no further and taking no pity. Not yet. “Tell me,” he repeats.

Cloud breaks, lifting up to his elbows to turn his head and gasp through a fall of damp hair. “ _Fuck me_. I _need_ you to fuck me, Zack.” And now he can’t stop. He repeats it as a mantra, a trembling prayer. He’s whining it out, _fuck me, fuck me_ , demanding it, and then pleading for it, begging, because Zack remains frozen and deeply rooted. “Fuck me, fuck me, _please!_ ”

Zack holds out. He grits his teeth. He squeezes his flesh. He lifts off his back just enough, making ready, anticipating. He is not disappointed for his patience.

“Fuck him,” Reno whispers. “Fuck him,” he says louder. “ _Fuck him_ , Zack.”

“ _Please!_ ” Cloud cries.

He has to humour them now. He can’t disappoint. He leans and bites Cloud’s exposed nape, withdrawing from him to the head, to the starting point, and not taking it easy either. Cloud moans, Reno curses, and then here he comes, returning with a jolt, driving back, driving home, fully seated, fully accepted. He rears back again, giving no pause, only to return, again and again, until Cloud’s all anyone’s going to hear. He howls his devoted approval, shuddering and bracing for every oncoming stroke, knees wide, spine bent, head dropped, a swaying pendulum.

Now it’s just Cloud and the packing sounds, and Zack’s teeth biting his neck. They’re thrusting towards excellence a third time, with Reno... in hand. He’s eating up everything, seeing everything, almost able to taste it and touch it. He’s part of their dynamic, whether Zack liked it at first or not. He’s his replacement. He’s going to be sticking around. He’s vital.

“Fuck him _hard_ ,” Reno demands.

Zack likes the idea and gathers himself to oblige, resetting his hands lower on Cloud’s hips, digging, pulling, and repositioning. He leans back and up from his resting place, leaving Cloud’s nape free for now, and brings Cloud to him with every thrust, increasing the friction, the frenzy, and the overall depth. He’s cursing along with Reno: _fuck, fuck, fuck_.

Cloud is frantic and guttural, all noise and feeling. The pace is steady, the rhythm furious, and Zack's losing himself to it. He's drifting, slipping and falling. He’s living inside every one of Cloud’s desperate cries: like sanctuary, like damnation; living and dying. They’ve never been closer. He slams forward, knowledgeable and needy, pulling Cloud into him, onto him. He claws his fingers and listens to the song, the slip, the slide, the smack. He feels the moment, the importance, the reverence.

He’s got to pace himself now or it’s going to be over with a crash and a bang. He’s already driven Cloud some ways across the dirt and the grass and towards the front of the old tent. He’s driving him down, down, down, ruining their knees and their throats and Cloud’s elbows.

He draws out, catching himself before he leaps forward again. Balking and shuddering, he inhales, and then he allows himself to sink back in, deeply and surely all the same, but as excruciatingly sedate as he can manage, feeling the squeeze, every detail, and every pulse beat. He forces himself to give them all a chance to breathe and collect, cutting the pace.

He gasps and swallows, his throat and tongue dry as ash. Cloud breathes and shivers before him, a writhing and still-recovering, dusty mess. Zack rubs and slides his hands from his hips, running down his back and inside his thin, rolled up shirt. He’s pressing and mapping, dragging nails and rocking his hips, a fraction of his former fervor, eliciting whines and mouthy moans aplenty, never letting up, never appeased, or appeasing.

Cloud is relishing the break, his breathing having been compromised. He accepts every slow and sliding and slick reentry, moaning deeply in his throat, his mouth never closing for long. He’s a wanton image, a bent and trembling body. He gasps and moans and swallows and soon finds he can afford his trembling and wanting body increased friction if he moves on his own.

It starts calmly and curiously enough, and Zack allows him the experimentation. He stays himself and holds still, letting Cloud pull his own hips away and then push them back. He’s exuberant and vocal, and impaling himself, undoing himself, riding Zack’s cock and causing a scene in no time. He’s falling to pieces right before them, the rhythm building, the mindless moans rising, their souls joining. It’s destroying Reno and threatening to have Zack. 

_(...absolution or death…)_

In that moment, Zack understands. It’s about leaving, about the end, about Cloud, and the monster in his head. It’s Zack’s monster, because Sephiroth wouldn’t have been if it weren’t for his love, and his adoration, and his aspiration. He has to take the responsibility. He has to wash away the hurt and the memory of him like he wanted to the first time. He has the duty and the opportunity and the power to do so right now, at the cost of a life he already gave for him.

It's with that thought that he pulls free and flips Cloud onto his back, determined and delirious.

_I'll heal you. I'll make it right._

Zack gathers him up, dragging him by his thighs and hips into his waiting lap.

“Oh, fuck, fuck!” Cloud cries out, filled again in moments.

Zack rolls over him, sending Cloud high onto his shoulder blades, bending Cloud double and in an even more vulnerable manner than before. With Cloud’s knees lifted and pressed to his chest, Zack can now drill down from above and reach deeper still. Cloud shouts and expresses his thoughts on the change, just noises, just digging fingers, just his noisy and lovely and bright blazing face inches from Zack’s. And Zack dips into him, again and again, folding him, invading him, taking his everything, being his everything.

_I’ll wash him away._

Heat. More heat. Too much heat.

_(...absolution for death…)_

They're glowing, alight and aligned, stars colliding. They're engulfed and only growing brighter, lighter, louder. Zack keeps thinking he can do it. He can fix it. He’ll wash it away. All the hurt he caused. All the strain. All the fear. He’s going to save him if it’s the last thing he does. It’s from the heart, from his very soul. He’s burning up with it. It’s starting to hurt, to sting, to cause alarm.

He’s in agony. He’s in ecstasy. He's losing track of holding back, of keeping pace, of whether these throaty cries from his friend, his companion, his confidant, his lover, his ultimate undoing, are anguish or salvation. He slams on, drives down, skin blistering, sensitized, slippery. The goal is clear. He pours himself into Cloud. He signs over his very being.

His chest tightens, breath catching, vision filling, expanding, throbbing, shot through with gold and yellow and red and white. There is no black. There is no green. He's sure he screams as he reaches his moment, his ending, his height, but he hears nothing, not a sound. The walls of reality thin and flex and he drops through, fading, fizzling, forgotten.

Flashes of home and better days, calm days. The choices he made. The path he took. The fame he wanted. Here comes Sephiroth, tall and strong, and as he was. Something to be remembered. Someone who needed love and understanding, but didn’t know what to do with it when he got it. Here comes Cloud, not so tall and not so strong, and as he was. But, no. Zack doesn’t want to see that. He wants to see him as he _could_ be. As he damn well _should_ be. Smiling and beautiful. Strong and able. Strange and wonderful. Ridiculous and caring.

_I can see your face._

Looking to the future, and seeing what lies ahead, Zack only finds the Director.

And then darkness finds him.

 

 

_Status: Ex-bodyguard - Location: Miles outside Gongaga_

He comes first. A lightning flash, a held breath, a glorious swarm of butterflies in his guts spreading and sparking, and fading too fast. It happens just after the brilliant (and somewhat alarming) moment Zack lights the two of them up like a damn fireworks show.

The pouring on of light allowed Reno a better view. Inside the glow, splayed out, Cloud had to go and decide he couldn’t take it anymore and started pumping his cock, rolling with the punches and Zack’s downright calamitous pace. Oh, his hips are going to feel it for days...

Reno lost it there, that image stuck in negative, and squeezed his eyes shut, working down until his fast coming and explosive release. With his hands warmly wet, and his head still clearing of static, breath catching on late and lackluster, throat raw and coarse and hot, he hears Cloud cry out his fatal finish, followed by Zack letting loose a hoarse howl.

Heat arrests Reno's face, a summer breeze, an anomaly, and his eyes snap open. He leans to attention. The lively light is gone and Zack has slumped over Cloud still snug beneath him.

Reno rolls his eyes and wipes his hand in the grass, having some trouble but managing. He gets himself decent (tucked away and zipped up) and then hauls himself to his feet, unsteady at first, arms out, head rush pending, but he’s good. He’s standing. He’s great. That was...

They still haven’t moved.

“Uh…” Reno drones, stepping over. “You okay? Gonna need a hand?”

“I think... he passed out…” Cloud mumbles from below, breathless, and caught good.

“Well, that’s not very gentlemanly…” Reno remarks, making to shove at Zack’s back.

Cloud hisses at the agitation.

“Sorry,” Reno offers, drawing his hand back.

“Can you… lift him… or something?” Cloud asks. “He’s... kind of heavy.”

But, Reno’s got nothing left. He can’t budge him from behind, even with both arms at full strain.

Cloud has the audacity to laugh, accepting the discomfort it must cause him in that position.

“Don’t start with me, fucking pretzel,” Reno warns. “Hey! Zack! What the fuck?” He shoves him again, forgetting _again_ that he’s attached to Cloud in a very intimate way. “Shit,” he hisses, stepping away. He rubs his neck and stands to look down at their present problem.

At least he’s stopped laughing.

“Hey, Zack!” Reno shouts. “Wake up! Cloud’s in trouble! You’re crushing him to death!” 

That doesn’t work.

Cloud’s out of the humour stage and into annoyance. That's a good sign. A really good sign. “Can you _help?_ ” he growls, now wiggling.

“Hey, I only _initiated_ this. I didn’t think we’d get this far!”

“Zack!” Cloud tries now, urgent and angry, pushing up on him from below.

With their powers combined, they manage to hoist him up and shove him to the side. Zack thuds limp into the dirt, _poof_ , and now Cloud is free. Free to care for him like the stupefyingly good friend (and fuck) that he is. He sees to their pants and then tries to rouse him. He’s breathing, but that’s about all Zack’s going to be doing.

Cloud adjusts himself to a careless degree after that, just resetting his pants and petting his hair down, only achieving a well-used look. The two of them settle in together, the brute left respectably enough in the grass like a daydreamer staring up at the clouds.

He reboots not long before true calm is achieved, looking rather befuddled and wasted. The revival is a sudden thing, and disappointing. Cloud was sitting nice and close, not having spoken a word and _just_ starting to lean into him, and Reno _knew_ that if that happened… they would totally be okay, but, it doesn’t happen, because Zack stands. And not for long.

“Whoa there, tiger…” Reno remarks.

He sees it at the same time Cloud does and then they’re both up, rising in unison to confront him. The over-sized jerk is bleeding from the ears. He’s making to get up again, as if it might work this time around, but he only succeeds in making it look impossible.

Reno hangs back from the scene, deciding halfway is best. Cloud reaches Zack in a blink, easing him down with a firm hand. Zack doesn’t easily go despite his struggles. Cloud has to bring up both arms to take him to the ground and sit him on his rear.

“You’re bleeding,” Cloud explains. “Are you hurt?”

Zack only shakes his head, side to side, _no_ or _I don’t know_.

“Understandable,” Reno says in an exhale, coming no closer. “That was something else, yo. What did you do? Fuck. And _I'm_ the horny one? That's almost twice in one day. Are you okay?”

“Yeah... I think I... proved my point though,” Zack admits, shrugging and spent.

“Only point you proved is that you're out of control,” Reno explains. “And I... kinda like it. What else could I get you to do? Can I get you to admit you've been acting like an asshole?” He pauses, grinning to himself, a loaded thing, evil and lurking, but nowhere near as cruel as he knows he can be. “Could I get you to admit you've been treating Cloud like an object?”

“I… can. I have. He’s… It’s just… He’s like an _obsession_. You should understand,” Zack offers, slumped there next to Cloud as if that wasn’t the case, and nothing at all happened between them. “And whatever it proved to _you_... You like it rough… And I’m starting to trust you.”

“Okay, okay… Wanted to keep it light...” Reno relents.

“You could always stop talking…” Cloud mumbles, wiping a drying trail of blood from Zack’s jawline with his thumb.

“Well… I guess we share more character flaws than I thought. I never shut up. I never back down. I’m an _annoyance_. Things turned out better than I could have hoped for though. You have to admit… Come on. You fucking _guys_ , at the end there… Holy FUCK. You were _glowing_. You're something else, soldier boy. You _did_ something. That was... fucking _awesome_.”

“Agreed,” Zack confirms, finding and taking ownership of Cloud’s probing hand.

“Yeah…” Cloud breathes, accepting the commandeering action. 

Reno laughs, honest and clean. “You’re leaving a lot to live up to, man,” he tells Zack. “And _you_ ,” he groans, gesturing to Cloud. “By the way, you sound like you're fucking _dying_ , man. It's the hottest thing I've ever heard… Fuck. What a team.”

With that, Cloud yawns, long and loud, blinking away several tears by the lengthy end. Zack nudges him through the duration with his shoulder, being a pain as well as a doting and watchful companion or partner or boyfriend. Whatever they’re calling each other these days.

They don’t need to exchange words, but Cloud doesn’t make to move either way. He’s not having any of it. He shakes his head, _no_ , wanting to stay and see after him, or disputing going alone. Zack nudges him once more, hard enough to make him swing an arm out for balance.

Cloud shrugs, unwilling to take the hint, more willing to take the hit. “Zack…”

“Just clearing my head…” Zack replies, shoving him with a hand this time, urging him on.

Cloud leans with it, pliable and silent, and then yawns despite himself. He turns, smiling a soul destroying smile, so light, so shy, so fleeting and glassy-eyed to Reno (who’s still standing and hovering there like an idiot), and tells him, “I really need to lie down again…” Now he reluctantly moves to head for the tent, struggling to navigate on his still liquidy legs.

“Sweet dreams,” Reno calls after, and then returns to Zack, still laid out between the sleeping fire and the tent, right about where they stopped after fucking frantically across the grass. “Thought you liked it from behind... You finished from the front,” Reno remarks. “And hey, I just realized... I used my left hand. Wasn’t even thinking about it... Kinda proud of myself.”

“Yeah, good job… That’s a... real achievement. And I said it _depends_ ,” Zack mumbles, lifting only his head. “On how I feel… And whether I'm top or bottom.”

“Oh, yeah...” Reno agrees, subconsciously entertaining the idea with Cloud at the helm. “Oh, shit,” he breathes, working to banish the thought. He does, and sighs, giving Zack an accusatory once over. There is less rivalry and more pity once again. “Why don’t you go join him, man?” he asks. “You’ve been awake for, what... _months_ now? You look beat. You’re slumped in the dirt. I can keep an eye out while you two crash and cuddle. Can wake you up before reconning. It’d do you good, I’m sure. Just… think happy thoughts. Don’t go on a rampage. You _don’t_ need to. I won’t be there this time, so you won’t feel the need to hit me.”

“I might want to anyway...” Zack replies.

“Yeah, and I might _like_ it,” Reno counters.

And with that, Zack affords him his first genuine smile.


	34. Chapter 34

****_Status: Ex-bodyguard - Location: Miles outside Gongaga_

He does an untold amount of damage with that smile. His easy, head-cocking smile. It’s more painful than when he busted his collarbone, but not his phone. It’s twisted in that it hurts, but it's also like a pat on the shoulder, or getting eye contact from the cool kid, or childhood promises remembered and redeemed. Reno knows in that moment... he's going to fight for Zack like he never got to for his brother, and how fucking _irritating_ is that?

This whole love/hate thing excites and tires him. How fortunate he would have been to just get _hate_... He was holding out for hate. He was turning the coals on jealousy.

After their unlikely (but largely instigated) session, it’s on to an unusual and frequently impossible amount of peace. Reno’s looking at an honest reprieve and a real moment to breathe, _and_ Zack is listening to his advice. He has little option, but still, he’s humouring him if you look at it right. And Reno is. Zack doesn’t give him shit, or a fist, or a reason to roll his eyes. That is, until he starts struggling to erect himself into a standing position.

Reno steps close, eliminating that precious space of safety and reaction time, and offers a whole hand, his right, right on down to him. He’s being the support he always needed in the past, and not hating it too much. Yet. He’ll complain, but he can do this. He can keep it together. He’ll get his bonding time and his coma yet. They’ll slip by this hectic shit as always.

Zack accepts his outreached hand, but nearly pulls Reno on top of him as he lurches to stand.

“Fuck, you’re _heavy_ ,” Reno grunts.

“All muscle,” Zack says, at full stance, at full attention, and inches taller.

“Pfft, I don’t see it,” Reno remarks, stepping back and putting his hands on his hips to eye him. “You’re just as skinny as I am, man. Is it your stubborn will and relentless rage that enables you to lift that stupid fucking _big damn_ sword then? Your BDS. The extension of your manhood. The most impractical thing I’ve ever seen.”

“After all this…” Zack groans, “you really think I need an extension of my manhood?”

“Hey, you know what? I didn't get to see a lot,” Reno complains, pointing a finger at him. “A lot was going on, and you were moving fast, and I was kinda far away… and then you _lit up_. How about... I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?”

“It's not very impressive right now.”

“Right,” Reno snorts, cracking a smile. “That's cool then. Back out. I'm not worried. Everyone has to be good at something. Outrageously giant swords withstanding.”

“What does that say about you then?” Zack asks. “What are you good at?”

“Oh, snap. Frisky tonight, aren’t we?”

“I’m fucking exhausted…” Zack groans.

“Then fuck off,” Reno suggests, jerking a thumb to the tent.

“Gladly,” Zack confirms, and stumbles to get on, not saying a goodbye.

Reno watches him go and then does what he said. There’s not much for it. Over the next several hours they’re just going to have to wait and deal with it. They can settle things between each other and themselves, or not. And then it’s on to Gongaga. In the meantime, Reno will sit here and listen to the woods and the wind, his empty stomach and his thoughts.

The day moves along uneventful at best. No random encounters, no scouting troop, no excitement or surprise. The same cannot be said of his thoughts. He isn’t so self-involved he’s thinking Cloud’s going to listen to Zack’s demands and turn away willingly. The kid might be acting like he’s cool and understanding… but, there’s something else to it. Something’s cooking.

And then there’s his and Zack’s mental states to consider. The mako, the General, the confusion and disorder, and potential, lethal bitch fits. Not to mention, whatever the _fuck_ he thinks _he’s_ doing here, hanging out, the third wheel, still honouring dead words, and carrying a torch. Reno will have to decide how he wants to handle things, good or bad, now or never.

It’s maybe a half an hour gone when Cloud emerges from the tent by himself. His hair is matted with leaves and uneasy sleep (if he did any of that in the end). He looks dreamy and far away as he pulls his jacket on. Reno’s already on the alert, not taking kindly to the idea of this vulnerable image concealing a lurker, even after rationalizing and theorizing about their light show.

“Yo,” Reno calls quietly, catching a belated and distant gaze from the blond.

He’s going to have to watch himself here. He’s going to have to make all the right moves. He’s not much for being delicate either, but he can try. And try he has. It’s all been so very trying.

Cloud slides over and down and sits next to him, pleasantly near, comfortingly near. Reno gave up his sitting stone long ago to take up a seat on the grassy ground instead. He’s been facing the side of their shelter and providing a good eye on their front and rear. He’s all legs and bent knees. To tell the truth, his ass was just starting to hurt.

“How’d you sleep?” he asks, sitting upright.

Cloud only nods.

Reno’s pulse doubles. He wants to rush him with a stampede of questions. “Are you...?”

“Kinda waking up,” Cloud mumbles back. “Didn’t sleep. Been sleeping so much…”

Reno nods, cooling a degree. This is good. This is normalish. But, if he’s learned anything about dealing with these two, _normal_ is always calm before storming. It’s always too good to be true. Hold onto your hats. If things aren’t fucked now, give it about five minutes.

“Why do you have to love me?”

Or maybe seconds.

“Why do you have to love _Zack_?” Reno retaliates, shifting to relieve the pins and needles. He sighs, grits his teeth and takes it further. “No, wait. Don’t answer that… We’d be here for hours... You’re gonna chase after him though, right?”

Cloud doesn’t quickly answer. His eyes are diverted, chin pointed down to his chest, face hanging over his lap. The longer he waits, the more his face turns pained in profile, the deeper his masked eyes stare distantly, the more the weight and realization build. “What do you think?”

“You don’t wanna know what I think…”

“That’s where you’re wrong though,” Cloud argues, lifting his head.

Reno shrugs, shoulder twinging its dull cry. “It’s fifty-fifty, I guess. Same as our odds.” He shifts again, needing to readjust further. He doesn’t have the greatest circulation being tall, _and_ he’s unbearably stiff from recent events. “I want to know how you’re holding up.”

Cloud frowns. “I’m... I can’t put my finger on it… But I’m... _good_.” He comes to it slowly, his distasteful and confused expression sustained. “I’m _better_. I feel... calm. And clear. It’s kinda hard to explain. I needed to... lie down after… _that_. Felt so… drained. But… in a good way. Like, _relieved_. I don’t feel… _heavy_ anymore. He’s not... so… _close_.”

“I can believe it. He _lit_ you up, man! It was fuckin’ _wild!_ Could you feel it? How could you _not?_ What the hell was that like? I think he used his mako shit on you. Like, some kind of magic _thing_ , or a healing spell, or whatever. And hey, here’s the test… You’re not going to pop your eye out while we sleep, right? You’re not convinced there’s a depraved General in your head?”

“Maybe not…” Cloud answers, dropping his eyes down and away. “Not yet anyway.”

“Fantastic.” Reno chimes. He clears his throat, not searching for full eye contact just yet, deciding it might be easier without, but not by much. Oh, heaven help him. “That doesn’t make a lot of sense to _me_... but it _is_ fantastic. Have a lot less reason to pull my hair out now. Also means big guy’s pulling his weight finally. And while we’re at it… having a good talk here... You know... we can _do_ this. We can follow him. I said I’ve got your back... I’ve _got_ your back, pal.”

“I guess…” Cloud mumbles, eyes just as dreamy and far off visionary, but focusing, collecting and clearing to look at him pointedly, parentally, because Reno’s decided to glance over at him again, unable to stay away for long. “There’s no point in telling you not to?”

“Nope.”

Cloud doesn’t contain his displeasure. It’s getting dim now, the day midway through and reminding them, but his look is clear as horizon. Reno’s always seeing this face. Why can’t he have another? Why can’t Reno have calm and happy? Why can’t Reno have lust and awe?

“Happen to have a plan?” Cloud asks, feline eyes glowing in the last, strong shreds of sunlight.

“Yeah,” Reno answers. “And… I don’t like it.”

But, he smiles to himself. He’s had a random thought. Well, not _random_ , because he _is_ hungry, and thinking too much, or too little. Probably the latter. Either way, he wants to hear someone else’s input and voice for a change. Cloud’s is nice and honest and more than he can ask for.

“Speaking of _like_ ,” Reno mumbles. “I’m starving.”

“What does that have to do with _like_?” Cloud asks.

“Because I _like food_.” 

Cloud shrugs.

“Which do you prefer?” Reno inquires, waiting for acknowledgment to continue on to part two.

Cloud scratches his arm, showing very little interest.

Reno huffs. “Come on, throw me a bone here…”

“Which do I prefer…” Cloud repeats, mumbled.

“Peanut butter or jam?” Reno asks.

Cloud snorts, but he’s smiling. “Really?”

“Hey, it says a lot about a person,” Reno explains.

“Alright then… You’ve got to ask Zack too though.”

“Oh, trust me. I intend to,” Reno assures. “Well?”

“Uh, peanut butter,” Cloud admits.

“Crunchy or creamy?”

“Creamy.”

“Mmm,” Reno hums. “I thought so.”

“How about you?” Cloud requests, prodding him with his index finger. “How do you take it?”

“Loads of jam. And crunchy.”

Cloud nods, saying, “I thought so.”

“Should we take a bet?” Reno asks, lifting his eyebrows.

“On what?”

“On Zack’s.”

“I guess… But, what are we betting for?”

“We can make it easy,” Reno explains. “A kiss.”

“Playing it safe, huh?”

“I’m learning my lesson… I assure you my first thought was _not_ PG.”

“If I win... I’m kissing you? If you win… you’re kissing me? Sounds like it’s all in your favour.”

“It’s more of a win-win,” Reno pushes, unable to hold back a grin.

“I bet he’s the same,” Cloud answers.

“As what?”

“As _you_ ,” he stresses.

 

 

As soon as the light is starting to break, the sun working its way down behind the western mountains, Zack joins them. He sleeps thrice as long as Cloud, needing every second and probably more. He's literally beat to shit and lacking.

He’s not disrupting much when he creeps up. Reno doesn’t get to ask all the questions he wanted to or complete a detailed explanation of his plan(s), but he does get a lot of nonsense and smiles and a few laughs out of Cloud, so he’s happy as a clam.

Zack settles in right next to Cloud, bumping him enough to make him sway. They’ve reset around the unlit fire’s edge, the tent at their backs. The soldier is looking quite a lot worse than he was hours before, but he’s been breathing through his formerly broken nose and wincing less. So, there are two positives, but here comes the rest…

Zack’s in turmoil and showing it. Maybe he had another bad dream while he slept, and that’s enough cause to duck and cover right there. His every muscle appears tensed and strained. His skin is pale and pulled where it hasn’t been blackened by blood and mud or bruising, or turned white from scarring. His quasi-bomber jacket is undone, showing his naked chest. That head bandage is blank and even, tied tightly. His jaw is set, but that’s been permanently set since the beginning. His teeth are always chomping at the bit. He doesn’t look fit for any kind of last stand.

If it’s making Reno feel this shitty… he can only imagine what it’s doing to Cloud.

“How’d you sleep?” Reno prompts.

His answer is a liquidy, deep cough.

Cloud winces beside him.

“Not great,” Zack answers at last.

“We should stay another day then,” Reno responds, laying it out just like that. “We shouldn’t stay put though. I’d suggest we move camp and push back over that ridge or something. You’re not in any shape to do any kind of _anything_. I think you blew your chance this morning.”

“I agree,” says Cloud.

“I’ve got this,” Zack grumbles, suppressing another cough.

“I’m just going to hope that’s your smoker’s cough talking, buddy,” Reno chides. “That _still_ doesn’t make me very confident in your physical state though. How did you ever get away with smoking in the army? Did you stop on the battlefield every five minutes to catch your breath or light up? _Shit_.”

“I just dealt with it.”

“You’re like talking to a robot sometimes, you know that? I get a good answer for every fifty fucking stupid-ass ones. I know I’m not the only one too… You do the same shit to Cloud.”

“It’s…”

“What’s left of your filter?” Reno prompts.

Cloud looks all the more uneasy.

Zack sighs, heaving, heavy, igniting another coughing fit.

“Do you prefer jam or peanut butter?” Reno tries after Zack quiets.

“What?” Zack asks, irritation spiking.

“Come on. Don’t make me repeat myself,” Reno grumbles.

“Another round of stupid questions?”

“Of course.”

“Jam…” Zack offers, giving in and deflating.

Reno falters, but recovers quickly to add, “Creamy or crunchy peanut butter?”

“This is so stupid…” Zack groans, tossing his head.

“You’d already be done if you’d just played along…”

“Crunchy.”

“Damn,” Reno exclaims.

Cloud outright laughs, unease gone for seconds.

Zack scowls and fumbles for a cigarette, ignoring their games.

“What did you dream about?” Reno pries, going the short route.

He might be taking out a little bit of his displeasure at losing on him (just a little bit), but he hasn’t lost anything really (no, he _gained_ a hell of a something when Cloud made his guess), it’s just that he guessed wrong, and Reno surely hates being wrong, like he hates not having control, and an idea, and a reward.

“Nothing... good,” Zack grates, achieving his cigarette. He clears his throat and swallows.

“What was it?” Cloud asks, offering his muscle and driving in the last nail.

“What _could_ be,” Zack answers angrily, biting the cigarette’s filter in his teeth and then removing the thing entirely to add, “and what _should_ be. It wasn’t a bad dream. It was… a _sad_ dream. And I hate those. That’s all I get anymore. I don’t get good ones. I’ve never had a flying dream, or a lucid dream, or a victory either. I’m always struggling, or falling, or…”

“You fight too hard…” Cloud mumbles.

“...running away, fading away. _Losing_. I guess they’re nightmares. That hasn’t changed with the mako, it’s just made them worse. A lot worse. You were happy and smiling, Cloud. We both were. But, I knew it wasn’t real. I just felt… loss and regret.  It’s all intensity and emotion… Like I’m amplified. I’m… _dangerous_. I feel… _edgy_. I don’t know what I might do. I can’t—”

“You’re fine right now,” Reno consoles, stopping him there. “Well... you need… some rest, and a good meal, and a bath, and a new hairstyle, and to put that cigarette back… but hey, whatever. We all need a bath and a good meal. At least you’re telling us this crap and not letting it bust out violently again.”

“That’s only because of the mako,” Zack grumbles.

“You put a lot of faith in this mako… Or is it _blame_?” Reno notes.

“It helped _me_ , didn’t it?” Cloud offers, breaking the news.

Zack regards him, an interesting expression brewing. “Did it?”

“Yeah, we guess. For now. I hope. _Good job_ ,” Reno responds.

“Thanks, Reno,” Zack retorts, trampling his sarcasm.

“Huh? For what?” Reno asks.

Zack lights his cigarette.

Reno pauses, blinks and then rises to fume upwind from the smoke. “Asshole,” he hisses.

It might be early yet for his reconnaissance, but the walk in takes an hour and a half if he wants to be casual about it, and for their sakes, he’s going to be as casual as ever.

Stopping his retreat, he turns to aim his next words mostly at Zack, and says, “I’ll be back then. I’m heading out. You can have your shortness of breath and your stained teeth. Don’t be _too_ bad of an influence on Cloud... I’ll take a peek on our friends and then we’ll split. You can... have your heroic ending, or whatever… Give me three hours. Tops.”

After being told to start a fire by Cloud, and igniting said fire, to the tune of his own grumbling and smart-assing, and yawning, Reno heads out on his reconn routine a second time. Zack and Cloud will have a chance to be alone and do whatever it is they might do.

It could be: _say goodbye, have another quickie, smoke a cigarette, stoke the fire, make dirty jokes, talk about him behind his back, dig up more unnecessary personal shit, throw petty punches, make faces at each other, stare in silence, ponder whether to turn tail, sing rousing campfire songs, or brood and pout._

Reno doesn’t know. He only knows that it might be the last time they will get to unless something changes. He can do his part and allow them to know what they’re looking forward to down the road though. He can give Zack a shred of hope and more than just his stubborn will. He might have shown a decreased interest in knowing what lies ahead, but Reno and Cloud want to know. They’ll be sweeping up behind him while he talks to the man in charge after all.

Reno doesn’t rush ahead into the unknown, he keeps a steady pace.

 

 

_Status: Fugitive - Location: Miles outside Gongaga_

“You look awful,” Cloud admits, showcasing more of Reno’s absorbed bad habits and starting things off firmly on the wrong foot. He mashes his teeth and waits for the incoming answer.

“Thanks. And how are you?” Zack returns, letting it slide right off in a puff of smoke.

“I’m…” Cloud starts, still astounded by the truth. “I’m okay. I feel... fine.”

And he did feel it too: the grand glow. And it felt like magic. Not just the the action either, but the _feeling_. To be sappy, it _was_ magic, instant and inexplicable, and waves of good memories and smells and feelings, and something like home: a sense of belonging and love. He wasn’t sure what it was. He’s still not sure what it was. He knows it was warm and arresting, and all Zack, and just toeing the line of being too much, too fast, but it ebbed away as soon as he slumped over him. The glow, the wash, the smell, the feel, and Cloud was left alive again.

He’s been unburdened since he crawled out from underneath him. He’s been optimistic and clear-headed, and able to make jokes and smile. As it stands, his only personal complaint is that he’s still so very thirsty. There is no static, no trembling nearness or haunted feelings. He’s not paranoid or pained. He feels like he can breathe. He feels like himself. This could be his miracle.

Zack cocks his head. “That’s good news... for once. It’s sure been a while. I can kinda leave on a high note now, right? Maybe I… _did_ rinse him away. Sure don’t feel like I slept at all… I just remember thinking I wanted to _fix_ you… I _could_ fix you… and then… I was burning up… and then I was _waking_ up. Maybe I should have taken it easy…” He sighs, he shrugs, he coughs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “I _am_ an asshole. Even if… it turned out well.”

He’s facing the white and yellow fire, his jacket hanging open. He takes a long drag off his cigarette and exhales the grey through his nose. He doesn’t seem to notice the cold. He rubs the back of his head, that little tick of his, that shaved hair growing in fast.

“You’re not an asshole,” Cloud assures.

“I dunno. I jumped your bones _twice_ without asking... Have you tagging along on _my_ nasty chores… Head-butt _your_ pal… Not to mention you’re fugitives now too.”

“Is it the mako that makes you so... sensitive?”

Zack wasn’t expecting that, coming from probably the softest and most afraid individual he knows. He stalls, seems to honestly consider it, ashes his cigarette, and then corrects his spine. “ _Sensitive?_ It’s… likely. If that’s what you want to call it... I’ve thought about it. I just… don’t feel like I can contain myself... Any thought I have wants to come out… has to be realized… It’s like being drunk or... really, _really_ tired. I just don’t _care_. I’m dangerous to be around.”

“Okay,” Cloud confirms. “You just... don’t look like the sensitive type.”

Zack laughs a short laugh. “I don’t look like a lot of things. Most people think I’m an idiot.”

“An idiot and an asshole?”

“Apparently.”

“They don’t know you very well.”

Zack sighs, turning away from the fire, and turning away from him. He says, between a drag and exhale, voice quiet and terrible, “I want to stop running around. I’m... fucking _tired_ , Cloud. I don’t _want_ to leave, trust me. I think... I want to... grow old. Or something like that.” He turns to him now, his dirty face in half fire bright, in half smokescreen. “ _Don’t_ … follow me. And _don’t_ come back to this place.”

Cloud shakes his head. “ _Don’t_ go in there. Stop _fighting_. You don’t have to. You’re not alone. Reno said no one else was there when he looked before. Just soldiers. A _bunch_ of soldiers. Your parents left. Maybe they were already told about you. Maybe they left _weeks_ ago.” He leans in and starts buttoning Zack’s open jacket, taking the time, enjoying the stillness and the repetition until Zack’s all done up, looking a shade less desperate.

Zack reaches for his side pocket and pulls out Reno’s folded up cap. Cloud snatches it and positions it on his head for him, completing his piecemeal look. He looks like what he is: a man on the run, a fugitive, a sad case. He’s a badly put together image of who he used to be.

“Now that I’m feeling more like myself… now that you’ve _helped_ me… maybe even _saved_ me… _again_... you _can’t_ leave. I thought you said you were done. What are you running from now?”

“Reno will watch out for you,” Zack answers.

“Reno… isn’t _you_.”

“This isn’t negotiable.”

“Why can’t I choose to _help_ you?”

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“It’s not any different than being a fucking soldier.”

“And had we been seeing each other inside of Shinra I probably would have complained about you changing your profession _every damn day_ , because I didn’t want you putting yourself into needless danger. I probably would have walked off my responsibilities, like I was already starting to, just to come check on you.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“ _I’m_ ridiculous.”

“My own preservation will never be enough reason.”

“Bullshit. And you’re doing it for _me_.”

“How would _you_ feel if I wanted you to do the same thing? You’d just let me die?” Cloud asks.

“I’d do my best to honour your words,” Zack responds.

“ _Bullshit_ ,” Cloud barks, taking his line.

Zack shakes his head. “You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be.”

“I thought you wanted me to meet your parents!”

“I thought they _left_ and you were trying to get me to leave too!”

They’re not going to get anywhere. Cloud quivers his hands before him, clawed and angry, and then stands to stomp the violent feeling out behind Zack’s back before doing or saying anything he might regret later. They give it up to the firelight and the semi-silence. Zack lights another cigarette off the remains of the dying one before.

Cloud calms but doesn’t want to think about how much more time they possibly have together. An hour, half an hour. He lost track years ago. Reno’s been gone for a while. The night is getting colder and colder. He’s running out of time. They’re all out of time.

“I don’t trust anyone like I trust you,” Cloud starts, having come up to stand at Zack’s flank, violent feeling gone, arms hung, eyes locked on the dancing fire for stability. “You’ve come back every time. You woke me up… You pulled me out of the snow… You rescued me from death… and _villagers_ … You tried to rescue me from _Sephiroth_ … You tried to rescue me from _Reno_ … And now you've _fixed_ me. Well, I’m... _better_ …” He takes a good breath and sighs. “You’re… _always there_. I haven't had anyone like I've had you, Zack. There was no one at home, or on the streets, or on the road… You’re on my mind always. You can’t go. You can’t just… _walk away_. How is that supposed to _help_ things? Now that you've found me... _how_ in the _fuck_ am I supposed to live without you?”

“It’s supposed to end _here_. It’s supposed to end with Shinra. They’re not in a good place right now. If they don’t have Sephiroth, or me, or _you_ , or Reno, or the Director working… how are _they_ going to function? They won’t care about coming after you once the Director’s out of the picture. They’ll be too worried about recouping their losses. This is personal. This is between _me_ and _him_. _That’s_ the problem.”

“ _Why_ are you so bent on _dying_?”

“I don't _want_ to die. But, I… don’t think I can _live_ either,” Zack expresses. “It wouldn’t be… _safe_.”

“What? Just because… you don’t have eyes and you’re… _feeling_ too much?”

“You _know_ it’s not _just_ that, Cloud. It’s the fucking mako. It’s too much. It’s going to get worse. It’s _getting_ worse. I don’t feel stable. I don’t feel... like myself. I'm going to... charge up again and spill over. I might...”

“So you’re going to throw yourself into a fight you know you’ll lose?”

“I’m the best and _only_ candidate."

“You’re so…” Cloud fumes, stomping his foot down. “ _Stubborn_.”

“Oh, yeah, well—you’re compassionate _and_ you smell good.”

“Fuck off,” Cloud growls, seething and wanting to turn away.

“I like how your hair won’t play along,” Zack continues, exhaling a smoky grey squall, recovering well. He speaks over his shoulder, through the smoke and the probable pain. “You’ve got this weird cowlick thing going on right in the front and the back there. It’s endearing and unusual. My first real thought was _porcupine_. I can... still see you standing there. In the beginning. You weren't even facing me. I think I fell in love with the back of your head.”

“Really though,” Cloud stresses, slumping down to sit next to him, “ _fuck off_.” He shoves Zack with his side and elbow, a gamely nudge, and then upholds the contact, needing to confirm he was mostly kidding, and confirming he needs to be as close as possible, no matter the level of annoyance or distress. “You’re… something else,” he breathes. Bring on the pain, the tears, the helpless doom and bubbling anxiety. “I remember... how you used to look at me.”

“Yeah,” Zack says, a sigh and an expanding exhale. He rubs the back of his neck, expressing that tick and unease again. “You’d be pretty for a girl, dude. I maintain I love you for your charming personality, of course… But, _damn_. I bet you make, and _have_ made, a lot of chicks angry. Some kind of contradiction... A _not so_ delicate flower.”

“A thorny flower.”

“Thanks. Now I’m thinking about pricks.”

“Oh, har har,” Cloud remarks.

They both wait a beat, Zack puffing a plume of smoke and Cloud chewing his tongue.

“I’m gonna miss you,” Zack says, a turned head and a curved spine.

“I’m… gonna miss you too,” Cloud returns, knowing the truest defeat.

Here he goes, shutting down. He’s engaging safe mode. He’s starting to feel next to nothing. If he lets himself get too close to the thought of Zack leaving and dying a brutal death (trying and tired and hurt), and never touching or talking to him again—he won’t be able to go on.

He sits with him and they wait out their dwindling time together in true silence, side by side, bathed in the heat of the dwindling fire and the cold breath of the surrounding night. Cloud leans his head on Zack’s shoulder and Zack pitches the cigarette to press the side of his cheek to the crown of Cloud’s head. They grip and hold tightly, hands interlocked and pulled into Cloud’s lap.

After a time, Cloud lifts his chin, the bridge of his nose finding Zack’s warm and exposed neck below his strong jaw line. It’s not so much to achieve any kind of end, or even excite him, it’s just because Cloud wants to remember how Zack tastes and smells as best as he can, while he still can. He can trace his pulse beat, alive and measured and too fragile. He can nudge his nose right under Zack’s ear and breathe him in deeply, with great gulps, with no reservations or fail or shame, getting sweat and blood and mud and cigarettes and every note of him.

He can lick and probe, tasting salt. He laps a patch clean and is soon tasting just his flesh, warm and wet and human. He drags and bites with his teeth, testing the texture and the give. Zack hums his gratitude right onto the flat of Cloud’s tongue, and then he’s moving, shifting, and Cloud is being reassigned. Zack eases himself clear, brings Cloud's chin up via a quick hand, and leans in to lick Cloud's parted lips, taking over.

He’s not quite kissing him, he’s just teasing him. Their mouths glide and slide openly over each other, Zack not yet committing or advancing. He’s outright dodging Cloud’s tries to return the favour or deepen the intensity. Zack dips and turns and then snags Cloud’s lower lip in his teeth, nipping, pinching and worrying, and then lets go, leaning high and away. He grins and grins, settling a white hot need and resolve and livid inspiration solid inside Cloud’s tingling guts.

“I love you,” Cloud breathes, lost and excited, riled and sparked, needing to express it, stress it, and let him know, _and_ the woods, and the sky, and God, and anyone else, _everyone_ else.

“I love hearing it,” Zack returns, smile sustained and now toothy. He’s still pushing handsome. Still under the scars and the bruises somewhere. Still everything all of the time, and too damn good to last. He’s just burning too brightly. “I still love you more,” he adds.

“You know… I’ve never said that to anyone before,” Cloud muses. “And never so damn much.”

“You sure? No one?”

“Okay… My _mom_. But, that’s different.”

“I’d hope so,” Zack snorts.

“Shut up.”

“Shut up and kiss me?” Zack offers playfully.

And so Cloud does.

 

 

Reno comes back with tales of nothing new. It’s no better than the night before.

“The place is crawling, but it’s sleepy and it’s dark. There could be fifty to eighty soldiers, several captains. Saw no sign of the Director. He’s probably hiding in a building. You could take the bulk out by surprise if you did it right.” He spills his information and sits nice and close to Cloud, mirroring Zack, not to be of an annoyance or make an attack, but to assure him he’s got this. And he does. _They_ do. They’re going to help him. “I could tail you in and take a few out before they know what’s hit ‘em. We can raise hell. Gonna be a breeze, right?”

Zack stands, grabs only his giant sword, and gets ready to leave, saying nothing of Reno’s plan.

Reno doesn’t seem to take it too personally just yet, but he does deflate and quiet, folding his arms, hunching his shoulders, accepting the old, bad pain and the refusal for the time being.

“You’re leaving first,” Zack explains. “I’ll watch you from here and then head in.”

It’s an honourable enough move, but it’s all for naught. Cloud and Reno do not agree, and it’s Cloud who expresses it first, saying a simple, “We’re going together.”

“Yup,” Reno confirms, arms crossed, pain shouldered, backing Cloud up, easy and cool. “Otherwise we’re going to crest that hill and then turn around and follow you right into Gongaga, man. There’s nothing for it.”

“Fucking…” Zack starts to seethe, showing teeth. He’s stressed and entertaining every nuance of it in haggard detail. “I can’t blame you… I’d do the same thing,” he reluctantly admits.

Cloud feels a humourless smile creep over his face, sure they’ve got him in a corner.

“I’m not going anywhere until you both leave,” Zack tells them. “I’ll wait all night if I have to.”

“How about _you_ stay and I go instead?” Reno proposes, rising and pointing to Zack.

“ _What?_ ” Cloud barks, standing to join them. Reno never mentioned the thought before.

“I’d have to stop you. Even if I had to kill you,” Zack answers, serious or not. “ _I’m_ going to finish this. It’s Cloud and me he wants. You’d end up dead either way. Remember the bar?”

“Sheesh,” Reno huffs.

“You wouldn’t _really_ go in there alone…” Cloud mumbles to Reno.

“You can’t deny that he’s got a _damn_ good reason to stick around,” Reno tells him.

“I _can’t_ stick around,” Zack reaffirms, tone growing in volume.

“Why? Honestly? Because you’re not handsome anymore?” Reno jabs.

“Because I’m dying of mako poisoning.”

“That’s just a... _severe_ theory. You can’t—”

“I’m going to stand here until you both get over that hill.”

“Don’t do this,” Reno asserts, beating Cloud to it, surprising him for a second time.

“You of all people, Reno...” Zack grumbles. “ _You_ should understand.”

“Sure. Revenge and whatever. How about just... _don’t go_? It’s fucking stupid.”

Zack shakes his head, turning away, a furious expression in fleeting profile.

“Come on, man... Zack... _Zackary_... We can have a threesome. We can hold hands and skip all the way back to Costa and get a ship to somewhere far away and nowhere in particular. Or we can hit the west coast. Light it up. Sleep and fuck all day. Or not… because. I dunno. You _can’t_ go. No one else is there. It’s just soldiers and death and an angry old man.”

“You’re wasting—”

“For fuck’s sake!” Reno howls, stepping by Cloud to vent and finger point at Zack directly. “No! Not now that I’m starting to almost _not_ get annoyed whenever I think about you… Here you fucking go! Of course! Go _fucking_ figure! You’re running off to die! This isn’t like losing another more annoying brother at all, thanks. You giant asshole. You selfish prick.”

“Oh, don’t act like you aren’t eating this up,” Zack disputes, that angry and old poison resurfacing. “You can’t _wait_ to get rid of me. You still think Sephiroth’s alive. After all this, I’m still just a liar and you’re the bodyguard. I'm in the way of your dick and your supposed _job_. This is all making you sound so very sympathetic.”

“You see the worst in me, that's for sure... I'm a lot of those things, yes, but this is _also_ me saying come with us or let us come with. You’re headed to your death,” Reno offers, calm but fighting for it, and not doing so hot.

“No,” Zack answers.

Reno, tight as a bow, is ready to snap.

“Stop,” Cloud cuts in, calm and clear, quelling them both. “We’re not gonna get anywhere...”

And they won't, and they all know it, to the bitter end, so they leave it to focus instead on packing up camp. They dismantle the tent and collect their rucksacks. With the entire task taking only a matter of minutes, they’re soon left to stand and stare at each other again in the awkward and silent aftermath of what used to be base camp.

Reno and Cloud are on one side, Zack is on the other, the leveled grass and charred bits of their fire below. This is it. This is the end. This is the moment.

Zack nods to Reno, Reno nods back, and Cloud wants to scream. They might have to wait him out, because Cloud isn't going to leave him. He won't turn away. He can’t. He’s got to do his best and fight on. He’s got to convince him. He’s got to win. He’ll save him this time.

“What if _I_ go in there instead?” Cloud asks, breaking the silence and forcing conversation.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea…” Reno mumbles.

“I’d stop you too,” Zack says easily.

“You could try,” Cloud fires back.

Zack brandishes a cocky smile.

Reno looks a little bit nervous.

They stand moments more.

“What if—”

“Cloud…” Zack starts.

“I’m _not_ leaving,” Cloud exclaims, and he rushes forward, closing their gap, crashing into Zack, and knocking his balance off a step. He presses his face into Zack’s collarbone, where his head comes naturally, and wraps his arms around Zack’s middle, squeezing him with ferocity.

Reno gives them the time, staying quiet and standing by.

The tension builds and draws out. Neither of them make to move away or do anything contradictory to enjoying the other's required physical company. Zack holds him close, chin on the very top of his head, one arm encircling his waist, the other holding his sword low at his side.

Reno kicks rocks and steps from side to side. He clears his throat loudly. Twice.

“I’m going in first,” Zack finally says, a mumble building into something confident and defiant. “Wait until I get inside my house before you even _think_ of following. Before you even _step foot_ inside town. Otherwise I knock your asses out and leave you in the jungle.”

Cloud nods against him.

“You have to promise me you’ll take this sword back to its owner too.”

Cloud nods again, less enthusiastic.

“He was in Midgar... with the Shinra resistance…”

“You can do it yourself,” Cloud urges, finally pulling away.

“I—” Zack starts, looking down on Cloud.

But, Reno’s got this. “You need a final cigarette before we go,” he explains, stepping close. “Because I might want those back before you leave. They _are_ mine after all…”

“You gave them to me,” Zack disputes, gamely agast. “And you hate the smell.”

“Hand ‘em over.” Reno gestures. “You can... have them back when you _take_ them back. Think of it as incentive. You live, you smoke. Plus, a dead guy doesn’t need cigarettes.”

Zack shrugs, pulling the items from his pockets and picking out a last cigarette to put on his lips. Reno takes both the pack and the plastic lighter from him, moving to torch Zack’s cigarette, right over Cloud’s head, and then tucks the items into his shouldered rucksack.

Cloud watches all of this closely.

Zack stills and puffs.

Reno backpedals, waving at the air.

They have about six minutes.

“We should have a quickie,” Reno mutters. “You might get another cigarette out of it too. If you're lucky. I’m willing to take the hit. Oh, man… I’m so good at flirting when I’m tired...”

Zack snorts, sending his smoke far and wide via both nostrils. “That's what I'm worth? A cigarette? Less than a single gil? How about... a shotgun?”

“The hell is that?” Reno retorts.

“You suck the smoke from my mouth,” Zack explains.

“Oh,” Reno breathes.

“I'll try it,” Cloud offers, jumping at the chance.

Reno scowls, a brow furrow included.

Zack takes a languid drag from his cigarette and smiles down at Cloud. “You sure?” he asks, exhaling slow and sly, the trick working on him completely, implicitly, and all at once.

Cloud nods.

“Come here then…” Zack beckons.

And here he comes, not having to go far, Reno watching and locked on as Cloud rises to his toes. After taking another long and sucking drag off the cigarette, Zack leans his face down, and then they’re engaged, lips meeting pressed and pursed, smoke peeling from the corners of their mouths. Cloud twists away after just seconds and coughs a puff of pure white to the side.

Zack smiles on. “You’re supposed to _suck_ it in,” he explains.

“Let me try again,” Cloud urges, already returning, lifting and ready. Because that wasn't good enough. That just won’t do.

This time he applies Zack’s advice and sucks the air right from Zack’s mouth into his own, nice and steady, getting a good draw on the smoke curling and caught inside. He pulls away with a dart to avoid coughing in his face, the exhale more confident and controlled, but still he coughs. The burn eases and cools; the smoke rises and curls. His eyes watch it to its very end.

“Reno?” Zack offers, gesturing the cigarette towards him.

“Can’t I just... get some tongue?” he tries.

Zack cocks his head, playful and careless, more shades of him just as Zack and not a poster, a fabrication, a false god Reno had probably painted him up as on first sight. The walls are coming down. All the ribbing between them anymore as common as they breathe and blink. It’s too fucking late though. It’s all too late.

“You might not have one left afterwards…” Zack answers.

“Ouch,” Reno exclaims. “Never mind then.”

“I thought so…” Zack replies, smiling around the cigarette.

“You still owe me,” Reno muses, not giving up.

“What and how?”

“There was a coma mentioned... Whatever was going to happen before you ravished Cloud still needs a revisit... I also deserve an epic end to our epic fight, yo. _And_ let’s add everything else I might want to take out of your hide just for enjoyment’s sake, because I really need to find out how rough _you_ like it, and just how much _you_ can handle, friend,” he rambles off.

“Is that so?” Zack inquires, eyebrows piqued.

“Absolutely,” Reno answers.

Zack puffs a stormy trail of smoke his way.

Reno’s eyes narrow.

Cloud watches them, one to the other, and holds his breath.

“Get used to disappointment?” Zack offers, shrugging.

“Tell me about it…” Reno grumbles, following with his own shrug and wincing away. “You’d make it number two, man. I’m really slacking… My game has never been so off, yo.” He pauses to rub his arm and shoulder. “Historically I’ve always gotten everyone I wanted… _Everyone_ —and this is the annoying part—but _you two_. I’m going to die so sexually frustrated.”

Zack takes his last drag and drops the cigarette butt to stomp it out under his boot heel. Reno and Cloud both look down to watch the action. It feels final. And distant. And underwhelming.

“Let's go,” Zack says, forcing his weapon to comply and lift over his broad shoulders.

“Wait.”

Cloud and Zack both pause.

Reno smiles weakly, offering a shrug and both hands up in supplication. “You said not to follow until you got inside… If you go inside, we can't see you. If we can’t see you, we can’t watch your back. And if we can’t watch your back… You get the idea. We should come up with a signal if you need an assist, you know. Like, some kind of sound or whatever.”

Zack does not make to respond.

“Okay, fine,” Reno sighs. “What’s your address?”

Zack hesitates. He’s probably debating on whether or not he wants to reveal the information at all. But, he sobers and replies, “Straight back, cliff side, number six.”

Reno nods, visibly solemn and anxious. “We're all agreed this is a stupid idea, right?”

They enter the forest and head towards town. It’s slow going, the woods thick and dark, but it’s doable. They don’t talk as they move ahead and filter through, the three of them in single file. They listen to their surroundings and focus on staying true. Reno sets the pace and chooses the path, making it possible for Zack to navigate and fall in behind him. Cloud takes up the rear.

Forty minutes of suffocating coniferous forest later, they come out into the open air of a field-like clearing, owl-eyed (for the most part) and wanting for a quick break. It looks to be miles yet. They have to cross the spanning, midnight field and enter the indistinct, rocky lowlands at the base of the clothes iron shaped ridge ahead. Gongaga is glowing up on that ridge and cliffside in the distance, looking down on them as they approach.

There’s Zack’s hometown, a glittering point, his point of origin, and their battle ground, another thirty or forty minutes away. As the only settlement in the area, it’s easy to spot and mark. It looks sleepy from here. There are fires burning warmly and chimney stacks releasing dark smudges against the indigo skies. It could be a normal town, eager for rest after the day, hiding nothing so horrible or tragic as a hard history. Or, it could be their killing ground.

 

 

_Status: Unknown - Location: Unknown_

Cloud and Reno are doing exactly what he would be doing in their situation, and he can’t blame them or hate them for it. He can’t fight them either. He can’t fight _everyone_. He’ll have to work through it and trudge ahead for his objective end. This isn’t changing his plans, only theirs. The sting of their loyalty might almost prove as painful as the sting of their probable deaths.

He can only hope Reno is as feisty and stubborn, hearty and loyal, and downright _lucky_ as he has proved to be so far. For Cloud's sake. He can’t do this otherwise.

He can smell the fire and the soot on the wind. He can feel the energy of all the bodies concentrated in one place. It's swarming the air, warming the air. It’s an added sense of unease and ominous weight. They’re still a distance out, but moving on steadily and easily.

All too soon, they find the main road leading in. It’s nothing special, just a dusty path criss-crossing up the rising mountain ridge. It’ll take them for a sloping lift to crest and smooth out where Zack’s home lies on the precarious lip.

Zack measures every step and takes his time, setting his own pace and carrying on and on, closer and closer. His sword is heavy, along with his heart, and his task, and his mind. He's laden with too many thoughts to catch and contain and contend. _Stay frosty_ is his mantra.

“Any second thoughts?” Reno asks, right on time.

Zack doesn’t want to reply, but one comes out anyway, mumbled and morbid. “A lot of them.”

“We can still turn back, you know,” Reno offers, stopping their ascent to face him.

Zack comes to a halt, Cloud coming up from behind him to stand at his left.

Reno goes on. “We can turn back and... open a bar. Serve drinks _without_ poison in them. We can be mercenaries. Or, shit, _missionaries_ , for all I care. What about farming? Maybe a little bit of manual labour would straighten me out. Who knows? We could find out though.”

Zack remains put. He has no expression. He has no outward reaction. He has little energy for it. His voice is breaking when he speaks, a struggle under the surface, a tremble not well contained, a grit and a growl. “You have to make this… so... fucking... _difficult_.”

“I’m just…”

“I _know_ what you’re _doing_ , Reno. That doesn’t make it any better. If you were _just_ trying to get into Cloud’s pants, that would be one thing... Not giving a shit about you would have been priceless. You had to go and redeem yourself and put a value on your ass. You’re trying to _help_ me… But, this _isn’t_ helping me.”

“You don’t think I’m gonna miss our little chats?”

“That’s what I mean…”

“You don’t think I’m gonna miss the chance to annoy you?”

“You’re gonna make me knock you out, aren’t you?”

“Bring it, big boy! I doubt you even _could_ right now,” Reno riles, tossing his head and crossing his arms. “You haven’t been carrying that BDS so much as dragging it, buddy. I see you. You’re done. You’re finished. I feel like we’re escorting a prisoner to an execution, and I’m not a murderer, yo, I’m an _equalizer_. Plus, I’m not getting paid _nearly_ enough for this bullshit.”

“BDS?” Cloud mumbles.

Meanwhile, Zack sneers, annoyed, tired, and teetering. He moves ahead, brushing by Reno, lifting his sword in one hand. He passes near, heaving the sword up and up. It’s a blur, another wash and haze all-consuming. His vision is frosted and foggy, mixing watercolors; Cloud a twinkling out sun at his back and Reno cooling molten lava sliding by. Zack’s in the moment, but not part of it. The sword swings in his two hands now, sailing over his head, and finds a mark. Wood splinters and cracks. The milky haze rinses over.

Zack hasn’t been the greatest at containing his reactions, but he can still direct them. He lashes out on the closest solid mass nearby (that isn’t either of them) and penetrates the outer bark of a wide tree trunk, finding the soft pulp inside, leaving the sword lodged halfway. Had he angled it right, he very nearly could have cleaved the entire tree where it stands rooted.

“Uh, yeah... For... big damn sword,” Reno responds. “I’m just... glad that wasn’t my head…”

“Ditto,” Cloud agrees.

“Stop blowing your energy,” Reno lectures. “Just gotta pull it out now.”

Zack retrieves the sword easily, a single jerk of the arm doing the job. His blood is rushing hot, head thumping sorely, chest burning tightly. He already wants another cigarette. He already wants to sleep. But, he shoulders the blade, a half yoke, and turns to level his head on Reno. He tosses it towards the path, giving the signal, waiting for Reno to give up and lead on.

Reno cocks his own head in opposition to his already cocked hips, not amused, not moving, not improving things. He’s going to stand his ground because he’s too damn stubborn (and stupid) to do otherwise. He’ll make Zack take the initiative, or a swing at him, before giving an inch.

Zack takes that initiative, right away, jumping all over it, again springing forward (hopefully making Reno’s heart rate double, or triple, or skip entirely), but not to swing on him. He barrels through this time with quite a lot less regard for his personal safety and they knock shoulders. Reno stumbles, steps aside, settles, curses his name, and Zack takes the front.

The trail levels and clears moments later to reveal the two choices of a two-pronged road fork. Take the option to the left and you’ll find the town’s graveyard as well as an empty white chapel, and farther still, along an overgrown and winding trail, the unfinished Shinra reactor in the valley below. If you choose the right (a direction historically proper, correct, and only of good consequence) you’ll find the entire township of Gongaga, and death.

Zack doesn’t need to strategize and check his surroundings, because this is home. He knows every twig and branch and twist and turn contained. He’s following the very same route he took when he left here all those years ago to start this tale of triumph and toil and terror.

They leave the path and hold up inside the abundant trees. They can’t be seen just yet. Reno and Cloud have the benefit of natural sight, but Zack has the benefit of having grown up here. He can mark the soldiers (dots and glimmers), and they are in position and on watch. Several men are at the front gates. There’s a cluster beyond that. Every house is occupied. From here, he can’t tell if that includes his own. As usual, he can’t see any clear environmental details.

The township is small and hasn’t gotten any bigger since he left. There’s probably still no exterior wall or fence surrounding the group of houses and buildings that make it up. He can also bet there’s still just one shop and no post office, or restaurant, or entertainment, or real trade skills to be found. The majority of structures are residential (town hall run out of one of them). The layout is old school, a sort of wagon ring with a large, blank area in the middle. There was no well or fountain or glorious point of esteem at the center when he was young, just a sign post. It let you know just how far away you were from everyone else.

The jungle tree line comes right up to the backs of almost every building, creating a sort of cozy enclave. All but the entrance and the westernmost border is hemmed in by jungle life. His house is one of the few exceptions. It’s located far inside town and closest to the western cliff edge. It’s a stunning view and dangerous vertigo, and windy always. That’s home. That’s through the welcome gates and beyond the open plaza and, more or less, to his front door, 300 hundred or more feet ahead, 300 hundred or more feet of the longest stroll he’ll ever take.

It’s dense. It’s sketchy. It’s where he’s headed.

“Alright,” Zack breathes.

Reno and Cloud wait and listen from his sides, eyes on the objective ahead.

“I’m just… going to walk right in there,” he explains.

“ _What?_ What the fuck? That’s what you’re calling _going in first_?” Reno blurts. “What if they start shooting at you? You can’t dodge a rain of bullets.”

Cloud shakes his head and nudges him. “You can’t do that.”

“You gonna argue or help me?” Zack asks.

Cloud looks to the town and then sideways to Reno. “Give me a gun,” he tells him.

“No,” Reno refuses.

“Give me a _gun_.”

“No.”

“How was this—?”

“Great…” Reno starts, speaking low. “Nothing ever goes to fucking plan anyway… Just follow me. I’ll take a few out. I’ll keep you safe. You grab someone’s rifle. You hang back and watch my ass. I’ll need both of my ladies for this. There’s going to be a lot of noise, I can bet. At least I’m loud, right? Collect every bit of ammo you can. Any sort of fire power. Stay low. Control your fire. Follow me. Don’t be a hero.”

“You know, I thought you were secret police,” Cloud wonders. “You sound more like…”

“I just paid attention in school,” Reno overrides, dropping his rucksack to remove his hoodie and offload it in the leaves and ferns at their feet. He then checks his twin pistols both, that discreet small-of-back holster of his evident only in Cloud’s aura flare. He bends to retrieve and reset the rucksack and flips his defiant hair clear of his face. “Plus, I love tactics, and plotting, and… I might have slept with a lot of soldiers in my day… But, clearly, I never learned my lesson.”

“True,” Zack notes.

Cloud snorts in good humour, but finds displeasure again to say, “I don’t like this.”

“What’s to like?” Reno remarks. “Just… keep your head down and stay out of sight. And _hey_ … _You’re_ the captain here. Aren’t _you_ supposed to be giving _me_ the orders? What’s your plan?”

“Shut up,” Cloud grumbles. “You’re my bodyguard. Don’t get yourself killed...”

“Yes, sir,” Reno answers, saluting with a pistol barrel to brow.

“Captain? I still outrank you,” Zack informs.

“Oh, hey, don’t go getting your panties in a bunch,” Reno counters, snide but cheeky. He holsters his prepped pistols and cracks his good knuckles, showcasing his readiness. And his anxiety. “Everyone knows you were a fucking SOLDIER. Thanks for reminding us.”

“Now see…” Zack starts, trampling a humourless laugh. “ _If only_ you had waited long enough, and kept your fucking mouth shut, you would have heard me say I was in agreement with your idea, but, what a shock, you had to go and ruin it.”

“Oh, shit,” Reno hisses. “You were?”

“I think it might be better if Cloud stays here though,” Zack offers.

“I’m not…” Cloud starts, but he doesn’t get far.

Zack turns to him, sweeping Cloud up and locking his arms at the small of his back. He lifts him clean off his feet to crush the breath from out of his lungs. With every last fibre of his depleted being, Zack forces himself to drop Cloud back down to his boots and let him go.

Cloud wheezes a good-natured _ow_.

“Catch you on the flip side,” Zack says to them both, avoiding goodbye, avoiding the thinking and the truth and the wants. He can’t stand anymore of his longing reverence at Cloud’s glow, and Cloud’s lovely compassion, and Cloud’s loyalty. And he can’t stand listening to Reno try and try and try. He wants to stay. He can’t stay. He _can’t_. He’s got to go _now, now, now_.

“Sounds like something I’d say,” Reno grumbles.

“Hey, Reno,” Zack growls. “Shut up. Keep your head down. Don't be a hero. And...” He turns just his head, a simple movement, a simple action, a subtle build up to one heck of a punch, taking all of one beat, one second, and tells the bodyguard, “Get Cloud.”

“Oh, _you_ —” Reno snarls, biting down a comeback to reach out and grab, but Zack’s already stepped from his grasp, and the tree line, and into the open, forcing him to stall or be seen.

Zack knows, with Cloud there, Reno won’t risk that messy outcome.

As soon as he’s clear of the trees, Zack’s on the road in and headed forward. He can see the waiting group of soldiers. There's a great rise and wave of reds and purples and greens and blues and silvers out there, undecided, mixing and shifting in the blackness now his home. The place is a sea of controlled movement. They’re all on the lookout, placed, pointed and ordered.

He shuts off, turning to his training and years of experience in the field, and strides ahead, noting the cool air, the calm wind, the hushed silence. He steps beyond the wooden gates marking Gongaga’s opened arms and enters the dusty jungle town, already having passed several forward units, rifles up and panning. He’ll be surrounded easily if he moves any deeper, and he does. He doesn’t stop. He regards nothing but the ingrained habit of walking home at the end of the night and keeps going.

He moves down the town’s main lane, an unpaved and wide thing. Soldiers line every side; they lean out every building's window; they eye him as he progresses, rifles drawn and following. Whispers lift and drift. They could be shocked and confused and fearful, or ready to go, and simply holding fire on orders. Either way, Zack knows that every breath is held, and every thought is put on hold. They watch and wait and let him go, not a single one willing to look away, or be the guy to take the first, wild shot.

Zack can see it now. He can see his house. There is his past and future. There it is in memory, and in his new sight, and it _is_ free of soldiers. He takes every remaining and vital step forward, his boots the only constant noise, his giant sword a premise, his appearance a promise. The soldiers and captains flex far around him to let him pass, and eventually, Zack comes up the short walkway to his house and finds himself at its low threshold.

He waits a beat there, hearing no change in the mass of heartbeats behind him, and then reaches to find the handle of the front door. The world around him is cast in deep darkness: unimportant, trivial, curtain drop. It’s no longer his place. His world is inside this very building.

The knob turns when he tries it.


	35. Chapter 35

_Status: Ex-bodyguard - Location: Gongaga_

The real reason Reno didn't grab Zack, as you might think, is because he was doing what he was told, _again_ , without even realizing it until later (and very much annoyed by then).

He went looking to quote, unquote _get Cloud_ and wasn't even going for the brute at all. He heard Zack, loud and clear, and knew he wouldn’t be able to hold him back, the handful and monster that he is, _and_ wrangle the little guy, so... he made the easy choice. He reached across for Cloud as Cloud moved ahead for Zack, almost masking his want and obedience with logic.

He catches him by a wrist, and then by both arms, and holds on, grip as good as steel. The rucksack swings off his shoulder to pendulum between them, Cloud’s staying put.

He stops disaster. Well, _more_ disaster, because Cloud lurches and pulls on contact, trying to flout his grasp and leave the tree line anyway. It’s all emotion and reaction for him. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he knows what he _wants_ to do, and he wants to follow right after his stupid boyfriend. He surely would have if Reno hadn't been there. Cloud would have bounced right from cover and reason, and into battle.

He twists, elbows locking, causing a reaction, a resonance, a sharp zing deep down in Reno’s fucked to shit shoulder. Reno winces and physically cowers from the sensation. He’s pulling right on away from his pain and peer, but he’s not letting go. He twists back a violent retaliation, a reaching victory, the weight of the rucksack working with him to bring Cloud in line and further complicate his suicidal escape.

After taking one too many tugs at his shoulder, Reno has an ugly thought. He could christen Cloud with the butt of his pistol and call it even, if he has to, if he makes him. And, as it is, he’s really wanting and willing to commit to the idea, the depth of energy he’s using in fighting against him great—until he gets to the part of: _how will he do this on his own?_

There are a lot of guys out there, and he’s just one amazingly skilled and wonderfully brilliant (and funny, and charming, and handsome) guy. His odds are halved without Cloud at his side doing his ex-job and being support. And, if Cloud’s safe and sound on the ground, out cold, he’s not going to be for long when Reno or Zack are further injured or killed.

“If you want to... see him again,” Reno growls, hushed and broken up by each pitch and pull, giving back everything he’s getting, and then some, “I _need_ … your cooperation.”

Cloud makes a pained noise, a groan and grumble, and fights on. He’s bucking and rearing, his own rucksack swinging off and dropping into the grass somewhere. He’s gotten his right arm free of Reno’s limited left hold (not enough fingers and too much moisture) to grip and knock and push back with. It’s not an improvement.

“Fuck,” Reno hisses. “Come ON.”

Cloud knows the score, but he’s not going to quit without showing more feral tenacity and dropping all of his weight against Reno like a tantruming toddler. 

Reno stumbles a step and struggles for the wild arm, barring the one he already has and dragging Cloud up and close. He’s using every stubborn cell, and his legs, and his torso, tangling and pressing, snake-like.

Cloud is slippery though, and springs up and swings away, trying one last time to break Reno’s grip the hard way. They’re almost back to back now, two partners in contrast. Cloud wrenches at his arm, forcing the benefits of his efforts, going against the grain, going for the open air, going for broke.

Reno bites back a shrill cry and folds to avoid the risk of an unlikely snap or possible dislocation. He’s dipping to adapt, dropping the arm and bending a knee. It loosens his grasp and gives Cloud the advantage. 

Cloud uses that advantage to again jerk and trudge onward for the pathway. Sneering and focused, Reno digs in his heels, welcoming the parade of pain shooting from his shoulders and along his arms to numb his fingers. He’s rising up, coming back to push his limits and the game.

Rucksack hanging by the straps from his elbow joint, Reno gets a lucky and angry snap and pull to bring Cloud within radius. The result is nauseating. They collide, switch and shuffle, shifting away from the path and town. Reno’s footing slips, unstable in the damp foliage, but he gets that arm at last, folding it away.

Aiming to call it quits and defeat the odds (and his desire to say _fuck it_ ), he crushes in from the front and slams Cloud to his chest, locking his arms, and the damn rucksack, stiff at his sides at last. They knock hips and knees, and Cloud’s chin glances his collarbone. 

“We’re losing _time_ ,” he tries, voice very thin and very far away. 

He might as well be hugging himself, Cloud is so slight. For being so small though, he’s full of piss and vinegar.

Arms crossed low at his back, keeping control and stability, Reno’s formerly numb fingers are starting to ache. Those of his left hand specifically. They’re complaining and distracting, and most of them aren't even _there_. His shoulder, chest, lungs and ribs burn and sting and, fuck, he’s getting dizzy. 

Cloud strains and growls, trying to break the cage.

“ _You’re_ … wasting time,” Reno grits.

Cloud tosses his head, missing Reno’s chin by a fraction of an inch, and then stiffens to heave forward and drop in his arms. He’s cooling and succumbing, now surrendered.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Reno groans, following him and the rucksack down to the ground, too spent to carry the weight of all three together.

Cloud’s left hunched, livid and panting. Here’s his dirty, pale face; his big blue moon eyes; his chapped and tooth-bit lips; his lank yellow hair. It’s an accusatory portrait of disdain Reno will just have to ignore. If he can. He’s not too sure about it right now.

“Hey,” he gasps, hugging an arm to his own aching middle for just long enough to stanch the clenching strain. “I can’t do this without you. Probably.”

He nudges him, pointing a shaking finger passed his head and to the otherwise lifeless town beyond. “ _Look, look, look_. He’s halfway across the plaza.”

And he is. They can just make Zack out through the breaks in the trees and the houses. His outline is not hard to miss in the gloom and half-light of night. He is unhurried, alone, tall, insane, above average, and risking it all.

“ _See_. He’s cool,” Reno assures. He shoves Cloud again for good measure, making him sway like a rag doll, or an abused animal.

Reno breathes and settles, improving slowly, and also not at all. He’s keeping him close, that leash nice and short. He trusts him, like blood, but he doesn’t trust his compromised emotions.

“We gotta _move_ or we’re gonna lose sight of ‘em, and then we’ll miss our chance. One he _allowed_ us. Don't freak out on me now, man. I thought you were doing better. We’re good.” 

Cloud knits his brow and scowls, showing some sort of understanding, and winding up resolve, and brewing action, and sure response. Maybe, just maybe, this is cooperation. He lifts his chin, hair parting to reveal his whole face. He blinks two wet and lidded eyes. Tears stream, making long, shining white tracks over his smooth cheeks to his pulled high collar.

Reno hadn’t noticed, but he’s been crying this entire time.

Face furious, hurt and totalled, Cloud nods, his tears all poured out.

“Okay,” Reno responds. “Come on.”

He stands, able to confidently baby his livid left shoulder, and offers a whole hand down, his right, for Cloud to use. They pick up, locate Cloud’s tossed rucksack along the way (Reno’s shoulder hurting anyway), and move through the tree line. Staying low and quiet, they hope everyone’s too interested in Zack to notice their slinking around.

Hand in hand, Reno in charge, they cross the path right before Gongaga’s main gates (an old, vermilion archway) and round to the western side of town, the earth rising up to become a tree-covered mound. They stop and wait a ways up the hill, still snug and covered by the trees and abundant outer jungle.

Reno needs to get a scan and a grasp on things, and this is a rather good vantage point. They can just see over the tops of every roof from here. Most of the plaza is laid out and visible too, dark and shadowed as it is. Zack said his house would be on this half, along the open cliff.

The two closest houses sit together to form an alley right into the town square below. It’s a narrow, unobstructed lane wide enough for two people to pass through abreast, and no one is guarding or eyeing it from this side. Unsurprisingly enough, nothing’s being guarded right now. Everyone is rushing towards their boy, Zack, and the town’s eye.

As they stand there, just watching, Reno starts to feel Cloud’s hand pull just the slightest bit against him. He’s hung onto it since they made their move. Reno doesn’t balk, he gives Cloud the freedom, opening his fingers and letting him go. The hand drops away and Reno makes a fist around the cold absence.

“We can sneak up while he makes his way through,” Reno whispers.

He wants to charge in though. He won’t lie. He wants to get into the moment. He wants a piece of the action. The fire, the blast, the burn, the buzz, and bang. Yeah. He’s got a thing for that too. He’s pissed at everything, about everything, and someone’s gonna pay for it, right?

The desire is there, but he only hesitates. He doesn’t take that impulsive step forward. He gets a sense of Cloud’s missing warmth in his hand, and then his growing warmth at his side, and he doesn’t want to do anything after that but flee and hide, and keep him close.

“You okay?” he sends the blond’s way. 

Cloud’s response is a noise, negative and nagging.

“Come on, kiddo,” Reno drones.

He takes one last good glance at the unfolding scene below before turning to Cloud. He sidesteps them both into deeper cover just to be safe, trampling ferns and shrubs, crunching leaves and sticks, trekking higher up the hill.

“He’s okay,” Reno hisses loudly. “For now. They’re not gonna touch him. They’re afraid of him. This is better than we could have hoped for. If we don’t move soon though... we’re gonna miss the chance to surprise them. That’ll increase our odds of survival by like, a lot percent. Or something. It’ll be _big_ though.”

“You don’t think… killing them... is a little… much?” Cloud mumbles.

“The _fuck_ do you mean?” Reno exclaims, gripping him. “I thought you wanted a gun... Must have forgotten about fighting me like a fucking spider monkey too. Thanks for that.”

“They’re just… doing their jobs,” Cloud proposes, and points to the cluster flexing with Zack, moving around him like a school of fish might avoid a large predator. “They’re me. They’re you. They’re Zack. They’re here because they signed up for this shit, Reno. They were dragged along. I just… think there's got to be a _better_ way.”

“ _Dragged_ along? Oh, shit. You’re serious? You really _are_ one of those... Oh, the morals and the values, the _good guys_ and the _bad guys_. We’re all _good and bad_ , Cloud. That’s the truth. They’re not any better than us. But, we _are_ better, because we’re not gonna _die_.”

“He's not attacking them,” Cloud indicates, making a gesture.

“Because they're not attacking _him_ ,” Reno explains. “This is _really_ something you should have brought up earlier, you know. Same with his whole, _I’m just gonna walk right in_ bullshit… How in the fuck am I supposed to work with that? _This_ guy...” He rolls his eyes.

“I didn’t think… I’d feel this way,” Cloud admits.

“Well, _fuck_ , Cloud,” Reno chastises. “Stop being a decent person right this minute.”

“This is… a lot…”

“I know, _I know_ ,” Reno shushes, shaking him, ignoring his narrow shoulders, his protruding bones, his visible veins, his wet eyes, his complete pliability, and the backwater scenery. “But, _hey_. I got this.” He grins and stands tall, looking down onto Cloud’s presented face. “You don’t have to kill anyone, son. Just… stay here. He’s got a point, you know. Stay low. Stay out of sight. Watch my ass. If I look like I’m having trouble and need help… well, then... _go_ get help.”

“Help? Out _here?_ ” Cloud scoffs.

“I mean _run_ , Cloud.”

“I can’t—”

“Shh, _shit_. Just... _shut it_ , you stupid fucker. You outstanding, beautiful bastard,” Reno growls.

“You didn't plan for this, did you?” Cloud asks.

“I figured you’d be no contest and he'd go all _primal_ again. Didn't _you?_ ”

“No. To be honest...”

“Well, thanks for the inclusion, guys. I see how it is. Just ignore everything I say.”

“Yeah…” Cloud drones, eyes sliding back to the town.

Zack clears the plaza and reaches the perimeter of a house set apart from the rest of the wagon ring formation. He steps up a short path to the front door and pauses there. The swarming soldiers pause with him. They are a crescent bowl closing in from behind, shivering and waiting to see what he does, waiting to see the show, and the blood, and the sweat, and the tears.

Reno sighs and reaches to rest his undamaged hand on a pistol grip at his lower spine, arm cocked out like a sideways triangle, sore muscles pulling. They’re easy enough to grab if he needs one. He’s got lots of ammo, and a knife, and spunk, and a snowball’s chance in hell. The soldiers won’t touch Zack, but they’re going to have a different reaction to _him_.

He’s just the bodyguard. He’s just the guy on the sidelines. He’s just the last face hundreds of lying and cheating (and some not, some decent and true) businessmen got to see before he snapped their fucking necks or cut their fucking throats. He’ll show them something else. He’ll get better than _bodyguard_ , or _secret police_ , or _soldier_ , or _murderer_. He’ll be a fucking _friend_.

And then, Zack’s gone. Cloud and Reno watch him melt inside the threshold of his house from far off on a hill. They’re safe enough to run away and probably not be followed, but too distant to be of any damn use. Cloud takes a telling step forward. Just one. Struggling within himself.

Reno’s heart sinks. But, it won’t stay there for long. When he gets sad, he gets mad, and that’s always bad. What a laugh. He will leave Cloud at the borderline, right at the start of the mouth of madness, aware and able to flee and save his own skin at least, and then he’ll throw himself into the fray to the tune of love and glory and rage and a lengthy, inappropriate _and_ humourous eulogy, because, dammit, he’s _Reno_. He can’t say goodbye, but he can have _a_ goodbye.

He watches as the soldiers rush to get up to the house’s front window for a look-see, and then he hops to it, releasing his pistol grip and closing his short gap with Cloud. He takes one step over and collects him. It’s rather theatrical, the motion, and runs out-and-out beautifully, nearly choreographed. If you squint. He should have been a dancer. He should have been _anything_ else.

Cloud has nowhere to go. The kid sways far with the resulting inertia of Reno’s oncoming force (and his own instinct to pull away), almost making for an impressive and impromptu backwards dip. Reno settles his right hand at the base of his spine to support him, half teetering, and swoops down for Cloud’s upturned face, only needing to call upon his upper half.

He plants a wet one on him, platonic and then not.

Nothing ever really goes to plan.

Cloud fists Reno’s shirt.

They pull apart and Reno swings him back upright, settling Cloud balanced. 

“Just _wait_ ,” Cloud demands, catching his breath and wind of Reno’s distorted ideas of glory.

Reno shrugs, disappointed, and maybe identifying that _that_ tingle in his guts has been shame all along, but then it’s not so bad, because Cloud’s returning. His face is a white moon eclipsing Gongaga and the whole dirty work ahead. His body is solid mass as well as solid hope.

Their mouths meet clumsily, and they’ll have to realign, but Cloud does so in wonderful, pulse-pumping fashion. He grabs Reno by the sides of his head, pulling him down from his six foot height, impatiently angling, lips wet, slipping and sliding, perfectly pressing, opening. Reno tastes more tears. He tastes more sadness. He tastes excitement. It’s a span of seconds, just seconds, but forever, and then nothing. Gone. Absent. Desolate.

“Wait,” Cloud breathes over his face, a jet of jungle heat.

“Okay,” Reno answers back, his eyes just now reopening.

He’s _so_ glad they made that bet.

 

 

They bolster up and watch from the trees no more, wanting to get a closer look for themselves too. Reno leads Cloud from the jungle hill top, driving them towards the two houses below and the two-person wide gap. They quietly and swiftly dodge trees and shrubs, rushing up on the town square and the gaggle of troops closing in ahead.

Cloud is lacking. He’s wanting for Zack. And Reno knows it. The kid’s afraid, and afraid to admit it. Reno doesn’t want to see anymore blood and hurt either. This could have been avoided. They could have run away. And yes, maybe Vincent would have followed them to another dead end, but they could have kept running until then. That doesn't sound like much of a life, but it also doesn’t sound any different from any other. They would have had more time. They would have been together, side by side. Not separated and biting their thumbs.

Reno’s ungloved hands are wanting to shake. His head and shoulder hurt. His stomach is turning, empty and angry. He’s shivering because of the cold and the anxiety. He took his hoodie off to have function and movement, but now he’s just frigid. Everything’s gone to shit.

They reach the opposite edge of the houses and scuttle along a wall to move up, reaching the lip of the inner square. They wait a beat there to maintain cover. Cloud takes an audible breath in and holds it. Reno listens for any alarming changes in the rabble of voices, but nothing does change. They haven’t been spotted.

Poking just his head out to get a half view on the crowd, Reno watches quietly for moments on end. It’s too dark to make out much more than what they saw from the hill. He can bet Cloud is straining to hear the confusion of voices and make out any conversation details, just like he is. They might be far across the plaza and yards off, but the soldiers have no reason to be quiet.

“They’re all crowding around his house,” Reno whispers back to Cloud. “Him and boss man must be in there. Everyone’s got their backs to us.”

He thinks Cloud curses under his breath, but then he’s drawing back to avoid being seen and knocking Cloud back with him too.

Everyone _had_ their backs turned. They must be getting antsy.

“Why are we even here?” someone nice and loud asks.

“He said he was a defector.”

“That’s it? I mean… He’s scary as _fuck_ , but. I can’t disagree with him.”

“What do you mean? Defecting?”

Cloud and Reno brace and listen.

“I’ve been hearing a lot of bad things lately.”

“Like what?”

“Sephiroth killed the president.”

“He wasn’t even _in_ Midgar that day.”

“Sure. That’s what _they_ say… But I think they’re full of shit.”

A new voice adds, “I heard he was screwing his partner. A male partner...”

“ _See_. What the fuck. And that’s _our_ general: a fairy.”

A distant voice calls back, “They’re starting!”

Reno and Cloud move in unison to watch the handful of soldiers push back into the crowd. Their voices become muted and quiet. Whispers exchange as the group watch intently. Cloud and Reno watch intently, too. It feels like forever as they do, waiting for an opportunity, an edge, a positive. It’s all time Reno feels he should be using better. Say, to set traps, or sneak up and strike, or get Cloud to safety.

They don’t get the calm for long.

A thump and crash inside the house heralds a development. The crowd reacts.

“I'm not sticking around to face _that!_ ” 

Cloud and Reno duck back.

Cue the shuffling, advancing footfall.

“Are you running?” asks a responder, probably an officer. “What cowards. What would General Sephiroth think? You’ll all be charged with treason!”

“Oh, whatever. Seph's _dead_ ,” the original voice replies. “He was a fruitcake anyway. What a joke. I bet you _that_ guy did it. His boyfriend wouldn’t give him a fucking pearl necklace, or something. This isn’t even a mission. This is bullshit. Fuck this whole company. I'm out.”

Many others chime in and the group rise into a fit of jeering and sneering.

The average Shinra employee doesn’t seem to have too much loyalty these days.

Reno scoffs and grumbles, “Homophobes and cowards... You still don't want to kill ‘em?”

A sudden gunshot rings out and the revolting group settles.

“You’re to hold position until ordered otherwise!” the officer announces.

It’s a nice try, but a boisterous bang from inside the house carries over his last few words.

Reno jumps to look, Cloud pawing after him.

The soldiers at the windows whoop and cheer, glass flaring red around them. They thrash and trample flower beds sans flowers. They shuffle and knock at each other for the best view. 

Concerned, and only causing more concern, Reno exclaims, “Is that fire?”

 

 

_Status: Unknown - Location: Unknown_

When Zack looks back, trying to come to how all of this shit got started in the first place, times to talk on the level with Sephiroth didn’t pop up often. He always ducked and dodged anything that wasn’t his own concern, query, or a common hello (and even the damn hello would have to be fought for, regardless of it always being bad for Zack’s health). It felt so perfect in the beginning. Opposites attract and all that, and they couldn’t have been more offset.

Sephiroth was quiet and observant and restrained. The most he ever moved was in battle, and even that looked effortless and casual. Less than a strain or an exercise, more of an annoyance, a chore, trivial and boring. Everything seemed like an annoyance to him.

It’s not the perfect setting for a personal conversation: it’s the battlefield. More specifically, it’s after the battle. They’re not normal though, and formality is a laugh. Zack is sore and tired and beat. He’s young here. He feels so young, but it wasn’t very long ago. He was just… naive, and he didn’t know better. If he had all the knowledge then that he does now… he still doesn’t know how he would have handled him. 

It’s easy to hate a person that hurt you. It’s easier to despise one that hurt those you love. It’s easy to separate Sephiroth (the bad) from Cloud (the good), but here, in this moment, this memory, before the fall, before that all, they’re both just hopeless wanderers.

“Seph…” Zack calls, finding him with his back turned.

He knows he doesn’t like the handle, but he also knows Zack doesn’t care. Sephiroth pans only his head to glance over his broad shoulder armour as he approaches. That glamorous hair of his doesn’t allow him to see at all, of course. It blocks him out, a silver-white border framing a handsome image further in. It’s a movement of acknowledgement more than anything, because General Sephiroth never puts himself in a position of disadvantage. 

Zack takes it as a good sign (because _any_ acknowledgment is a good sign) and comes up to thump a hand down on that shoulder pad and press some weight there. Something no other human within a hundred mile radius would ever _think_ of doing. Ever.

Sephiroth’s only a few inches taller than him in reality. They’re both pushing six feet, but Zack will always feel the smaller. He’ll always feel like a speck in contrast, a nick in his armour. And he still does.

They look out over the battlefield. The dead, the dying, the victory of the day. Zack’s gotten better at ignoring it. He’s only seeing Sephiroth, not the gore and the grief. He’s admiring his profile and watching every slow blink. He listens for every measured breath. He feels no warmth under his hand through his glove and Sephiroth’s armour; it’s welling in his guts and his heart.

He was so blind. Even then.

“You a—”

“He’s testing you,” Sephiroth rumbles.

He might have a guess, but Zack’s game is dumb when it works for him. “Who?” He removes that hand to check his equipment and inspect an itching, grazing wound, acting distant and cool.

“He says you’re good for me, but we’re getting too close.”

“The fuck does that mean?” Zack grumbles back, rubbing the minor wound and then his neck, transferring dirt and blood and grit.

“He…” Sephiroth turns now, and his features come into Zack’s full view.

Their eyes connect and his light up, subtle, radioactive emerald to sea-storm blue. No expression is offered from either side.

Sephiroth looks Zack up and down, a quick sweep, and smoothly says, “He doesn’t like how we share quarters.”

Zack tries to play it off, avoiding the remaining gaze. “What else is a partner for?”

“You’re a distraction. The wrong kind.”

Zack feels that heat and admiration turn to the flames of anger. He shrugs his aching arms, playing it cooler still.

Sephiroth turns back to the field, just now getting the bodies cleared out by their men. 

Zack grinds his teeth and furrows his brow. He knows he reacts childishly sometimes. He knows he has a temper. And, he’s gotten this before. He knows the smell and shape and feel of _this_. He’s been here already. His dad caught him once. It only takes the one time. First kisses. Best friends. He had been furious. Disappointed. Ashamed. And then nothing, a ghost.

Zack looked up to his dad, but he also didn’t. How does that work? His dad was in the army. He was Shinra when Shinra didn’t have a name or fame. He was a work horse and a legend in his own right, but he never cared for any of it. He always talked about resting and taking a break. He looked like he could have been his grandfather more than his father. He’s the old breed. He went through a lot, Zack guessed and also knows, but he never talked about it.

He got the most information out of his mother. She didn’t like defying dad’s wishes though, so even that was light and too little, too late. With that spark, Zack committed to being what he knew his dad could have been. He was going to be a SOLDIER and show him (because mom never had an issue) that kissing boys and kicking ass were not mutually exclusive. He was going to _make 'em proud_. He was going to show off his achievements _and_ Cloud.

But, before that, before returning to Gongaga, Zack recovers, puts his anger on ice, feeling pretty proud about it too, and tells Sephiroth, “Do what feels right, man. He can’t dictate your life. You’re not a slave, you’re a person. You have your own wants and desires.”

“He _can_ , actually…”

“He _shouldn’t_. It’s _your_ life, man. Your choices. Your decisions.”

He thought he was giving him good advice.

He thought he was being a good friend and partner.

He ended up giving Sephiroth the okay to… fall apart.

He told him to defy the Director, who turned out to be his father, who turned out to be no different than _Zack’s_ father, who drove him away and turned him against everyone _and_ Zack. And then Zack... eventually killed him for it.

How could he not be at fault? How was he supposed to know Sephiroth was going to listen to him? Be true to yourself? Even if that meant murdering and raping? _Fuck_.

It only takes a moment to recall the memory and make the connection, but his morale and hold on things improve none. No recollection, good or bad, can save him from having to proceed. He is present but not prepared as he steps through his home’s threshold. It’s dim inside. No candles or lanterns lit. The smell is already arresting him and playing with his head.

It’s home. It’s good. It’s bad. It’s dusty, rushing memories from long ago: birthdays and holidays and arguments and laughter and music. It’s also like he never left. He can remember every detail, every accent, every wound. It’s an eerie sense of belonging displacement.

“Anyone home?” Zack offers the darkness, closing the door behind him.

“Welcome back,” the Director rumbles, his voice coming from a distance too near. “Couldn't resist, could you?”

He’s in the far left living room corner, across the open floor, sitting in one of Zack’s father’s chairs. Zack pans the rest of the interior, a quick glance and reset. Not much else is visible. Nothing much glows but the closest big trees outside. His town never got the luxury of modern electricity. Shinra came late and then lost interest. And then so did Zack.

His house is small, square, and a single story. The tiny kitchen is straight back, the living room wide and open, the bedrooms and bathroom off to the side and out of the way. There’s not going to be a lot of room to hide, or fight, or move about in here. The Director is impossible to see; his aura the colour of the background Zack’s vision is served on.

“Sure you have enough friends out there?” Zack asks.

“They were all so interested in visiting the hometown of a former legend…”

“A legend, huh?” Zack prods, stepping on, careful to avoid the low table and wall mirror coming up.

He follows the runner rug, keeping his front to his enemy’s voice and his movement fluid. His sword is out and ready, waiting, and so fucking heavy he’s leaning with it.

“I heard he lost his way. He was once proud and promising,” the Director remarks.

“The proud and promising always fall,” Zack disputes.

“Oh? But, here I am. Although… this is certainly not my hometown.”

“Proud, yes. Promising, no.”

“Did he make you pay for that tongue?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.”

“Touché.”

“Are we gonna do this? Or are we gonna chat?” Zack growls, growing irritated. 

His hip bumps the thin entryway table anyway as he passes, sending something on the surface clinking and wobbling: a vase or a bowl. Things will always have a way of moving around when you’re not at home for years.

He has butterflies even now. He doesn’t want to get too close. The stress is digging out a trench, rushing in his blood, unsettling his guts and tainting his head. His ribs hurt. His lungs are sore. His throat scratchy raw. His sinuses are no good, but that’s unrelated to his earlier injury and their earlier clash. It could be a cold. His palms are itching and sweating. He’s in bad shape.

“I thought I’d explain all my evil plans and wishes first...” the Director offers.

Zack sighs, holding in a cough. “Where are my parents?”

“Oh, good. So we’re playing along then…”

The Director remains seated and clears his throat. There’s a shuffle. Maybe he crosses his legs. He says no more just then, instead producing a piece of paper. Zack knows this only by the noise. He catches the flip and the crinkle.

“It’s from your parents,” the Director says. “They left it for you. Found it on your pillow. Shall I read it to you? I don’t think you’d get very far on your own. It’s not in braille…”

Zack braces, knowing anger over fear.

“Okay then.” The Director pauses. “It reads: _we’re proud of you_.”

He scoffs, and can now be heard crumpling the note. This resulting paper ball he tosses to send by Zack. It taps the wall beside him and then the floorboards once, quickly becoming muted by the runner rug underneath his boots.

“How sweet,” the Director continues. “They left when they found out... Next of kin is always notified first, and guess who got the honors of telling them?” He stands, leather creaking, but he does not advance or fade. “They were never here, Zack. I haven’t seen or touched them. You’ve been running to _me_ this entire time. You’re so entertaining. And _hopeless_.”

Zack strains to erupt.

“Is he still with you? Cloud? Does he cause you much pain?”

Zack readies, his grip tightening, defensive stance in place, heart thumping. His right foot edges forward, his back now to the bedroom hallway. His distance from the front door is a good ten feet. He can’t see him. He strains to listen, he strains for control. He knows he’s coming. He knows he’s got something for him. He just won’t know when, or from where.

“Not very talkative now? Has he begged you for death?”

The Director steps slow and deliberate, the footfall heavy and continued. Zack finds the movement hard to pick out even safe inside, standing still, and fairly quiet. It all seems muted somehow. The air is getting heavy, charged, static, but it’s not a mako buzz. It’s depletion.

“Did you choose a dark, enclosed area so no one would see your burned up face?” Zack prods.

The attack comes as a grazing bite to his arm, rendering nothing but a flesh wound. It sends him back a half step and reveals the Director’s weapon of choice. He’s using a small dagger. The gunblade has either been left holstered or shelved.

In this close of a setting, in this weakened of states, Zack’s going to take a lot of sustained damage because of the insidious call. The Director will cut him to pieces if he’s not careful. And he might not be. He’s already failing to hang on, and they just started.

The next bite comes, slicing his opposite arm. Zack’s guard drops an inch, allowing another slash to catch and grace his shoulder, leaving him cut open and flowing. The damage is deeper, the Director risking coming closer, striking harder. Zack dances with him, sword lifted and on the defensive. He can’t see him, and he can’t hear him over the shuffle and thud of their feet.

“Ow,” Zack exclaims, another cutting clip forcing his verbal vomit.

“You’re going to bleed all over your mother’s rugs,” the Director notes, giving away his position.

Zack lashes out and misses, demolishing his father’s chair in his furious wake.

“What a mess,” the Director laments, now at his back.

The next dagger snip defies Zack’s leathery jacket to kiss along his spine and back, splitting the fabric and rending his flesh underneath ragged. Zack recoils and spins, raising his sword higher to shield his front. He fights the instinct to check or coddle the wound, instead flexing the flesh taut, using the pain to temper his focus. He is slow, terribly slow. 

The Director breathes and waits. He’s a skip and jump away, standing inside the threshold to the kitchen, balanced between passing from the living room and into a dead end. To Zack’s front are the two bedrooms and the single bathroom, and no better odds. He’s caught and will have to fight penned. The living room is his best choice. They’re moving inside a box.

The Director advances and circles, coming in for quick slashes and prods, using his blade as well as his wits. The dagger is no match for the size and strength of Zack’s sword, but it’s quicker and he’s masked, always dodging and drifting. His speed allows for effective striking.

Zack is drowning in the drag and the pull of his fatigue and his mounting wounds. He’s feeling empty to the pit. He’s feeling thin and flimsy. But, he’s also learning, even as he’s being chewed up. He’s cataloguing every step and change and jab and lunge. He’s forming a response. He’s sending more strikes to the side and away. He’s managing to step clear.

Zack storms in, confident and pressing, pushing the Director right onto the center of the biggest and most loved of the family rugs. They shuffle and switch there, chasing and baiting, exchanging moves. Zack blocks and dodges. He struggles and fails. He crashes his blade through a coat rack, into a bookcase, over a chest of drawers, off a couch cushion.

He is cut and nicked and snipped all the while. His arms, back and middle endure the sting and the spring of blood and split flesh. He’s feeling the wear of sore muscles and the depth of each missed attack. He’s using all of himself.

He can't discern where the Director is based off of his tricky aura, and his present physical and mental states (and giant sword) aren't helping any. The BDS is more of a hindrance at this point. It was in no way made for this kind of scenario.

He’s low on mako. He’s low on hope. He’s low on everything. This is his last hour. It’s felt that way from the start, hasn’t it? Since he left and began, every fight could have been his last. It could have ended on the battlefield. It could have ended with Sephiroth. It could have ended in Costa Del Sol. It’s all looked the same. He’s already resigned to the fact that it’s over. He’s already dead. He’s already lost, or won, depending on how you look at it. He’s got someone fighting (and waiting) for him. And he loves him back. That’s all Zack can ask for.

His sword is getting too heavy to lift aggressively and effectively. That's what he's learned from hanging back. So, he disregards the sword and swings his fist before him in a wild effort. It’s a left hook, and makes a connection, a lucky or well-aimed aggravation. It devastates the Director into a retreat. He oversteps backwards, stumbling and skidding to the outer bedroom wall. Across the rug he goes, finally finding sudden traction on the wooden floor.

He strikes the entryway table, knocking the contents off with a crash and a bang. There goes the vase (or was it a bowl?) and a scattering of coins. The hanging mirror disrupts and swings, rubbing the painted wall _snick snick_ to the warbling of the rolling metal.

Zack follows him up, no time for hesitation, springing forward the four long steps dividing them, Reno’s cap flying off his head. He drills his horizontally leveled (and good) shoulder where he expects, and hopes, to find the Director’s exposed chest and sternum. The force, the speed, the determination, it all adds up. He busts them into the table and mirror and right through the thin plaster wall behind. They both crash into the room on the other side.

The two land sideways over his parent’s bed. Zack rolls up, dodging a blind strike that impacts behind him, and springs off the mattress to land ass first on the floor. He grabs for the nearby sky-blue BDS, a clear marker in the blackout, and fails to defend a stinging dagger swing.

Stumbling to his feet, he parries the next snip (a slash for the throat), and bites back with a hearty counter and stomp of his own. He breaks the flimsy defense the Director never had and opens his middle for another attack. Getting desperate now, Zack uses that opening to bodycheck the Director across the bed and send him thudding loudly to the floor on the far side.

Zack collects himself, clutches the BDS, and moves backwards out the open bedroom door, forestalling a haughty and wanted blitz after him. Instead, he’s going to pass through the narrow and enclosed hallway back to the living room, and open ground.

The Director takes his time following, getting tired, bruised, or setting a new tactic in motion.

The suspense is doused when the tactic comes howling at Zack through his parents’ doorway, piercing his left shoulder. The knife digs and lodges into flesh and muscle. The next one, coming from a similar arc and angle, Zack deflects and knocks out of the air with the BDS.

The sword goes crashing into the hallway wall with a resonating clang. He swings it level and heaves it up, returning to his retreat. He winces at his wounds and his nearing useless arm, passing into the living room.

The Director soon emerges after him, just footfall. He’s a shadow, a trembling wisp. He flicks another knife Zack’s way, but it’s anticipated and dodged. It sails across the living room to strike the wall at Zack’s back, sticking deeply into a hanging picture and cracking the frame’s glass. Zack steps onto that beloved rug. 

“How much fight do you have left?” the Director asks. He doesn’t sound winded at all. “You’re rather slow and bumbling. You must be exhausted, or sick, or dying. It’s probably all of the above, correct? That mako always has you on the verge of vomiting your guts out. What a life. I’ll do you a favour… I’ve got a little bit of a... housewarming gift…”

There’s a sudden flare and flash. The Director lights up, red and orange, his negative aura at the center just the silhouette of a man. He lifts his arm and lobs a materia-based fireball into the kitchen to his right, lighting it up. The explosion is minimal, just a rush of hot air over their faces.

The entire house is made of jungle wood and plaster. That’s the problem and immediate concern. The entire structure is going to blaze and burn to nothing in minutes. They’ll still be able to duke it out and bleed and snarl, but they’ve got a time limit.

Zack has an advantage at the very least. The Director is outlined and real as he moves before the fire. It crawls and grows, coils and licks, a faded orange trapped by the interior wall behind him. It’s starting to expand and light the entire kitchen. It will soon reach their arena.

The Director advances. He’s a spectre, a wraith, a mere suggestion. He’s deeper than the blackness that surrounded him. He is absolute nothing: a void complete as death. 

“You’re ready to collapse. Look how high your sword lifts,” he taunts.

He follows Zack onto the rug, a square big enough for their sparring ring, and stops near the center to oppose him. The fire is starting to crackle and spit. It’s going to take the bathroom adjacent to the kitchen, and the living room and the bedrooms, and then the house will be gone. His parents’ house, and his childhood home, will be burned to ashes.

“Give up… Take responsibility. Say you’re sorry. Apologize for all the time I wasted on you. And let me take you. Let me watch the life drain from your body. ”

“You want… an _apology?_ ” Zack gasps, finding his lungs lacking. He flexes and grips his fingers, heavy and slipping, wanting for purchase, for blood, for purpose, for peace. For an end. His shoulder is stinging, the throwing knife still lodged there as far as the moment it stuck.

“I want you to understand the gravity of your situation,” the Director utters. “Let’s talk about your legacy. Let’s talk about how you were the last straw your father could handle. I can see why Sephiroth kept you around. You have such common ground.”

“Yeah, and I listened. And he... _talked_ to me,” Zack admits, biting at the air and tasting smoke. “Did he ever talk to you? I mean…” he gasps and breathes, dragging in a breath, thick and catching. He’s deflating fast now. “Did he really _talk_ to you? Beyond just _yessir_ and… a glare? Because he told me a lot about you. Between the… cuddling and the cock sucking…”

The Director huffs and shifts, but allows the words to come and the fire to burn.

“And, you know, in retrospect…” Zack observes. “Things make a lot more sense.”

“Do they? You understand that you're going to die here then, in abandoned Gongaga, over fame and lust? You never did get away. You never really _made daddy proud_. He’ll always be a little bit ashamed of you. His queer son. His failure child. I should know. You shame us both, Zack. It must be a real disappointment to only be important because of the bed you found yourself in.”

“He hated you,” Zack growls. And yet he laughs, a humourless laugh, just a bark, an angry scoff and grunt. “He _hated_ you. You’re kidding yourself by even saying you’re looking for him. Anything you say to me about him is moot and bullshit. Did _he_ even _know_ about your relation? He couldn’t _stand_ you, so maybe he did… We talked shit about you for days. And now he’s dead because of you. Your legend is gone. I killed him. He… took it too far. He just... wanted to cause... pain. I was… finishing the job. And now… I’m here to finish you.”

Zack staggers back and sways, out of breath. The BDS dips to the floor.

“I doubt that. Like I doubted you from day one. You’ve only proven to be… stubborn. Nothing else. This hasn’t been refreshing so much as vexing. You’re going to be dispatched and burned away in your own home. Does that scare you?”

“Keep doubting me…” Zack sighs, drawing his feet together and standing tall once again. “Nothing scares me. I’ll be even more annoying... and keep you from your legacy. You wanna know _why?_ ” He smiles now and cocks his head, defiant. He doesn’t wait for an answer, he abruptly drops the too heavy BDS and lifts his bare fists, shaking and snarling. “Because they'll only remember what I _did_ to you…”

In the movies, this is where the soundtrack would cut out and the audience would hold their collective breath. 

“He _respected_ me,” the Director explains, ignoring his aggression and signal.

“He hated you,” Zack stresses. “We both did.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You shouldn’t be. Let’s do this,” Zack gasps, a staggered breath. “I’m not... going anywhere.”

All thoughts of Cloud are all too far and yet all too near. He can end it here, and if he doesn't walk out of this house, well, that’s all the better in his mind. There’s no chance of being a mako outburst away from going crazy around Cloud and Reno. He won’t hurt or alienate them any more than he has. This is how it should have ended with Sephiroth anyway. But, he was tasked with wiping the slate clean and rooting out the evil where it started. He has to kill the Director. He wanted Hojo too… But, you can’t have everything.

There’s no getting out of this one.

Zack heads in, fists only, clash and crescendo. The Director sneers and brandishes his dagger. They meet in the middle, and Zack doesn't block low and dodge, or fend off the blade, he forces the Director's hand, literally, catching him by the wrist and drawing him in to his center, gutting himself right as he stands.

Zack’s not running anymore. He admits he did once. But, he’s not anymore. He’s not turning a blind eye. He’s getting what he’s owed, and he has just enough left in the tank to finish it good.

The steel punctures through his jacket and abdomen, a spiking sting and _oh_ , he gasps, only to become choked. The motion doesn’t stall or wait up there, as the dagger hasn’t quite reached its limit. It goes farther, sliding on, splitting ends and flesh, making room to fit, hard and fast.

Silence reigns, but for the fire’s dull roar. Zack doesn’t produce another sound, not a peep. He’s grinning to himself despite, feeling the pouring out of sweat and heat, pain and blood. The Director’s dagger has impaled to the hilt inches above his left hip bone, inches below his rib cage. It’s a good shot. It’s a nasty shot. Zack is torn, but the Director is now close and unarmed.

He probably thinks he’s going to win. Maybe he thinks it’s over already and he _has_ won. Maybe he’s grinning Zack’s grin right back at him as an insult, a last comment, a lark. He surely must be. He twists the dagger and Zack seizes, lifting onto his toes, grabbing at the Director and jerking away at the same time. 

“Oh,” the Director laments. “Didn’t see _that_ coming?”

Zack spits blood spray and rips the throwing knife from his left shoulder, a stiff and planned action, sending it for a one-way trip towards the Director’s head and right temple. His aim is true and final, and the knife finds its mark. There’s resistance against skull bone, but not for long. A crunch comes and the throwing knife sinks onward to Zack’s clenched fist, granting the Director a one-for-one, but kicking it up a notch. 

Forced evisceration, huh? Well, here’s a field surgery lobotomy too. 

The Director lurches and wheels. Zack doesn’t let go, still caught close by the dagger dug in his middle and the hand he has on the throwing knife. He follows as the Director wobbles and thrashes his head, tearing at Zack’s guts below.

Zack assists, directing him with the knife in the deep of his skull. He shoves him to the right, going with the weapon’s plunge. The motion knocks the Director over in a sort of diluted wrestling move. He crumples and crashes, throwing knife slipping free of Zack’s grasp.

Unfortunately, the Director’s death grip on his dagger does not release too. He wrenches the whole thing with him as he falls to the floor, effectively sealing Zack’s fate and slicing his stomach wound wider.

Zack groans and clutches at his middle, trying to stall the bleeding and the stinging; the terrible rush of vulnerability and vulgar pain. He’s lucky he wasn’t disemboweled, but the wound is long and deep. This _isn’t_ fun. This is hot fluid pouring over Zack’s fingers and lap, legs and boots.

He stumbles, unsteady, but he’s still standing. The house is a hungry blaze. The world is glazed. He coughs and tastes heat and ash, liquid hot, sticky and gooey. He spits, gags and swallows, swaying. He’s got to focus and follow up, and confirm the kill.

Now he’s falling, dropping onto the Director's body limp beneath him. He guides himself with his shaking and bloody hands, getting the body rolled over. He draws up the Director’s chest to come to his face. Zack’s vision is failing, the fire helping little, the blood loss helping less.

Once fingertips graze chin and lips, he feels the Director move a twitch. It’s probably a muscle spasm, but then the bastard gurgles and convulses, twitching his whole head away.

He’s not quite done.

Zack winds up, rearing his right arm back, forming a tight fist at the end. He readies to finish the job by his hand alone, disregarding his injuries and the scorching fire.

_This is for Cloud, my parents and my house. Reno’s brother. Reno. Nibelheim and Gongaga. For killing Hojo before I could. For the resistance. And for Sephiroth. This is for all of you._

He drops that fist, again and again. He sits high on his chest and swings away, pummeling the formation and features from the Director’s face. Zack’s leveling bones, and protrusions. He’s smoothing out eye sockets, and the curve of his forehead, inverting his nose, knocking his teeth back into his gaping and gurgling gullet. The throwing knife stuck in his temple loses its foundation and clatters to the floorboards.

The kitchen fire burns on. It’s not as hot as the fire in Zack’s blood. Even so, he’s getting cold and winded and hazy. He already went crazy and spoiled his mother’s rug. He destroyed his dad’s favourite chair, most of the furniture, the mirror, and the wall. And he’s the cause for the fire that will end it all. 

His vision shivers in, pulsing back with his every difficult breath and thundering heartbeat. Zack’s bleeding from the guts and shoulder, and any previous cut he can’t feel. He’s got minutes at best. He gasps and rears up, dropping his demolished mitts to the Director’s chest. 

And, the Director? Well, let’s not ever think of him again. The Director is nothing. He’s sliding off the curve of Zack’s busted knuckles. He’s stuck to the grains of the floorboards. He’s a splatter on the crackling walls. He’s ground into the threads of an heirloom rug. He’s facial pudding. Just the scenery, man. Details. Subjective. Past tense.

And now Zack’s got nothing left. He struggles to dismount the stiff body, as dead as his dead dreams, done and gone, every last one—and crumples to the side and his back.

He’s still got one task ahead of him though. The fire’s starting to eat at the wall partitioning the kitchen from the living room. It’s nipping at the rug they’re lying on. The bathroom is torched, and the bedrooms are starting to go. And, that means, _his_ bedroom will erupt first.

That gives him a thought. All at once. The best (and worst) he’s had in a long while (or at least since finding Cloud). He’s going to have to drag himself. But, he’s okay with that. He’s not got long anyway. Or far to go. He doesn’t have a lot left. He’s bleeding out. He’s all but gone already. But, he can do this. He’s made his bed… and now… Well, you know the rest.

_Cue the worst night of your life, buddy._

He stiffens and rolls to his belly, the wound wailing out. Not a good idea. He twinges, grunts, and lies still, flat on his face. He can understand his father’s words now, always sighed and laden. The ones he would offer in excuse for interacting with him.

_I just wanna rest._

He leaves the BDS behind and lifts himself as much as he can to start off by the Director’s body. It’s a thirty foot or so crawl to his bedroom from here. He drags and pulls and fails, and drags and pulls again. The going is slow and agonizing. He starts to feel his flesh singe and burn as the fire nears, licking and lusting. He moans and groans and heaves on.

Clawing and reaching, fingers slippery wet, muscles stiff, his guts slick a wet path across the floor and rug as he goes. He can hear the blood bubbling on the wood as the fire reaches it. He can hear the snap and the crackle. If he had hair on his head, it would surely be burning too. His busted fingers are unfeeling, along with his tongue and his throat. He’s drawing great gulps of smoke through his mouth, the heat filling his blistering lungs.

He crosses the living room, entering the hallway. Once he reaches his bedroom doorway, blinking in and out, he struggles to rise using the wall and jamb. He can’t get to his feet, but he can get to his knees. He pushes hard off that wall licking flames after him, and lists, slumping, slamming through his closed door and back to the floor.

The blaze inside has already illuminated the walls, the ceiling, the curtains, the rug. There’s his furniture and pictures, books and records, and his bottle collection. It’s all vibrant to see. It’s like he never left. Not a thing is out of place. It’s just all... burning.

He crawls forward, not feeling the floor rug under his scorched fingers. He has to struggle across the room now too, because his bed is under the window against the far wall, opposite the door. He has a moment of doubt, not sure he can go on, but he can’t give up. Not now. He’s so close. So very close. He’s been through so very much. He can take a little more.

He can’t feel his sheets either, but he knows they’re there when he finds them. He groans and sneers, and manages to pull himself up onto what he knows is a clean and made bed not yet aflame. It accepts his weight as it always had: with reluctant yet waiting arms.

The mattress sags. He sags with it.

(... _it's over… it's over_ …)

This is where he would have shut his eyes. 

There is no more fire, and no more mako, and no more pain, and no more mission. The air isn’t hot or suffocating. His bedroom is a haven, a cocoon. His last thoughts aren’t on his lost dreams, or wants, or his living nightmares, or the house starting to collapse and bow and bust around him. His last thought is on horizon.

The sun. The rising sun. Morning. There will be a morning after this. For them. For Cloud and Reno. He made sure of it. And, that’s what he believes. He has to believe it. And, if Reno makes sure of it, there might be many more for them too. Zack is just passing the torch. That’s how this works. That’s how you live and die. Power to progress. He’s not regretting anything. 

Well. He can regret not saying _I love you_ one more time, and maybe having a better last word. And maybe he can regret being true beyond desire. And smoking more (or less). He can regret not saying _thank you_ , every day, at every passing hour, to his mom and everyone that ever mattered, and Reno... But, he knows that’s okay. He did good. And that’s a fact.

He can finally have that rest.

He can finally go to sleep and fear no dream.

His task is done.


	36. Chapter 36

_Status: Fugitive - Location: Gongaga_

It is a fire. It’s definitely a fire. That last blast, crash and noise from inside the house must have been foul play courtesy of the Director. Something like a triggered bomb, or a hand grenade, or military-grade materia.

Cloud’s gluttonous anxiety spikes. At this point, he can only hope Zack is okay. There’s not a damn thing he can easily do to aid him as they are. He was trained to be support, bred to be a survivor, but he’s not doing much of anything beyond wasting oxygen and complicating Reno.

The soldiers jibe on: curses and crows, shoving and knocking. Reno’s bouncing and fidgeting next to him. He’s not so great either. He’s scowling and stern, the seriousness amplified by its sheer novelty. He’s feeling the pressure too, and straining to obey his request.

Cloud’s feeling it right to the pit of his empty stomach. He’s thirsty, downright parched; dry as a bone. Here’s the headache he’s had for hours now to match. He’s had plenty of sleep (more than he ever wanted), but he’s still dragging the depths and searching for the strength to carry on. He has to act soon. His chest is heavy, and his reflexes gummy, and his head foggy.

He needs to know Zack’s status and he _needs_ to help his cause while he still can. He can’t stand on the sidelines. He can’t have him face this alone. He can’t roll over and take it anymore. Zack put all of himself into Cloud just to heal him. That can't go to waste.

The wind whips and breathes by, gusting right along the front porches of the two houses he and Reno are nestled between. It brings with it a smattering of icy water droplets and the smell of moisture. Cloud tries to pull forward, but Reno snags him above the elbow.

The soldiers watch and whistle and hoot. The fight doesn’t seem to be going in Zack’s favour. Reno’s fingers dig and bruise, holding him at bay: a contradiction. He’s got him caught fast.

If Reno’s got to listen to his words and _stay_ , then he’s going to make sure Cloud does too. Neither of them want to _stay_ though, and neither of them want the other to take the fall. 

It’s an agonizing stretch of time. It’s torture. Cloud’s getting hot under the collar. He’s getting worked up and worked over. His skin crawls, itching and sweating even as it’s shrinking from the wind chill and the sprinkling of rainfall.

The soldiers cheer and thrash. They’re calling Zack names, wishing him dead, banging on the window glass, filling the air with hate. It’s bringing Cloud back to a time he knows best with a slap and a thud, because this is his symphony. He is the ground everyone walks on. He is everyone’s point of antagonistic objectification, the receiver of all venom and bad luck. That should be him. Not Zack.

Never Zack.

He’s lost all ambition for worldly acclaim. Zack just wants to be the one he loves. And that’s absurd. That’s ridiculous. That’s... terrifying. He is caring and soft, even as he is scraped and bloodied and wounded. Cigarette smoke, the tang of blood, the smell of sweat, fresh grass, fresh snow, an early storm: these are all things Zack has infused. Cloud has no say.

And then, just like that, the jeering is cut and a sudden blissful silence drops over Gongaga.

In all of Cloud’s playbacks of how this mess began, way back when, there is a hallway, cradling heat, and a voice, _that_ voice, Zack’s voice, crystalline and perfect, coming over his head like a sigh from heaven splitting his sea of darkness, followed by breathless, vacuous _nothing_.

_Whoa._

He knew who Zack was from day one. How could he not? _You were just a name?_ He lied. Zack was already a legend by rights when they met and had been in service for years. Cloud played dumb and stayed dumb, thinking that was safer somehow.

He didn’t trust his kindness. There was, at that point, no rhyme or reason for him to. Cloud adored him just as much as he had Sephiroth and then never had the gumption to admit it. Hardly to himself. A little to Reno. Almost to Zack. Those _I love you’s_ , no matter how honest, fell short every time. Zack rattled them out when Cloud felt he had no more love left to give, but they _still_ sounded more like admiration or hero worship than the truth.

_No, no, no, dammit. I’m IN love with you._

Zack acted like he was as ordinary as everyone else trying to be a SOLDIER. But, he wasn’t, and his peers knew it. And Cloud knew it. That pissed off the wrong people (like the Director), and drew in others (like Sephiroth). He had all the clout of a 1st Class with the tag of a 3rd Class, and yet treated you on the level. At least, he treated _Cloud_ on the level, and that hadn’t happened before. He was the first to extend genuine respect. Genuine love. Genuine _anything_.

Zack was not average. He was pure. And honest. And brave, and a little brazen, and aggravating, and stubborn, and admirable, and inspiring, and outstanding, and burned too brightly. And, Reno was right. Cloud could go on for days. This is deadly and damaging. This is real love, hard to come by; harder to keep. He can’t give up.

That collective hush sweeps across the horde and mutes the entire, desolate town square. Only the wind gusts and stirs; the fire hisses and snaps. Cloud shivers and Reno huffs.

This must be the shift, the turn, the slip and fall. Something awful has happened inside the house, and Cloud can only imagine and mock up and make it worse with his unlimited and dismal imagination. He tugs and pulls against Reno. Reno tugs and pulls right back. Cloud needs resolution. He needs to _see_.

“That’s it!” shouts a soldier. “I’m out! I’m not dying over this.”

Cloud and Reno keep watch, not too worried about being spotted anymore. The fire licks high from the roof, lighting their arena and challenging the darkened skies overhead. The storm is starting to pick up into a drizzle, frosty cold. It’s going to be a screen between them soon.

But, they’re leaving. Many of the Shinra soldiers separate from the windows and the face of the burning house to collect at the center of the open plaza before it. Reno had his numbers close, if not spot on: they look to be fifty. Too many. Too close. The majority has split, and more are coming. The full occupancy of Gongaga gathers at its core. 

Houses have been emptied, fireplaces doused, posts abandoned. There’s enough to be a problem and pepper them with bullets for hours. There’s more than the town can support. But, they’re not stalling anymore. Whatever they witnessed pushed the small regiment into taking action. They move, mix and grouse.

Cloud holds his breath, hopeful.

The troopers have their word and then they start drifting from the town center veiled in flickering shadows. They pour from the circle, turning aside to give Gongaga to Zack, the Director, Reno and Cloud, and the three officers still daring to stand at the house’s windows.

The leaderless group retreat, showing no dissuasion or interest in any yelled threats. The officers in charge turn aside, back to the glowing windows, too concerned in the fate of their leader and the outcome of the fight to try and keep them around any longer.

Cloud’s eager to advance. He watches those voracious flames concentrating on the rear of the structure dance up from the compromised roof. He listens to the mass crackling and spitting and hissing, readying to give out, to give over and flatten to ruin. The deepness of night and the looming weather system only improve the unpleasant reality: the fire is huge now, it’s a spectacle, it’s threatening to consume all. 

These houses are made of excellent fuel (albeit gradually dampening fuel) and there are no civilians left to scramble in order to quench them at the source. The soldiers made sure of that before they quit. They ran off every last one.

A distant rumble in the moody vault above breaks up Cloud’s thoughts. He can’t take it anymore. The rearmost troopers left moments ago. The plaza is empty, blank, and calling his name. 

He settled this with himself days (weeks, months) ago: the possibility of death, failure, pain, and the probability of never having resolution or anyone to remember him after. He committed to Zack. Here’s an old devotion out of desperation and childish longing turned deep and real.

He pushes his entire weight into Reno, taking them both by surprise and mowing him flat and prone. It’s not a clean move, but it is effective. He breaks Reno’s slipping grasp as they impact soft ground and Cloud stumbles right over him, running all out into the sodden circle ahead. Reno doesn’t call for him, or make a sound, he is immediately and gracelessly following, his footsteps a double beat sloshing and sopping after him. 

The plaza is dark but for the energetic fire. And that fire is probably visible from the outlying valley, the forest of conifers, and maybe even as far as the coastline. Cloud reaches the blazing house and the backs of the three still watching just as the skies decide it’s at that same moment they will open the floodgates.

The hopeless image consumes his view and heats his face, drying the downpour and the unchecked tears as they quickly gather. He’s not sure what he can do. What has he ever been able to do? He’s not strong. He’s not smart. He’s afraid; a worried knot.

“Zack!” he yells out, voice crackling; too high, too tight, too late.

The precipitation is now fat, cold drops speckling his head, arms and face.

The three officers peel away to investigate, lighting right on him in eerie sequence. Cloud gets a brief but good glance inside the interior of the house. Nothing but shadows and bright, burning flames fully filling the glaring glass. They’re hungry. They’re insatiable. Nothing could be left.

“The fuck?” one of the officers exclaims. “That’s—” 

“Cloud!” Reno howls, skidding up behind him, half falling to his side and hip. His teal sneakers are no match for the collecting rain and disintegrating soil. “You stupid shit!”

There is little chance to think and pray or set up properly. It’s all Cloud can do not to rear back and fall on his ass, or into Reno. The officers advance at once, leaving the windowsill and the inferno to step from the trampled flower bed and into the plaza with them. They spread and close their gap. It’s two rifles, an officer’s sword and a pistol against… two pistols. And a knife.

Cloud’s in reverse, still on the move, a half-stride and stumble. He brushes Reno, collecting and pushing him along for the ride. They both backpedal into the heart of town, buffering their shrinking expanse. Cloud’s thinking of stopping and confronting the immediate danger and enemy there—inflicted with a wild hair, the gap doomed to close despite—when Reno takes it upon himself to solve the problem, shoving him to the side in one jarring motion.

Cloud glides, sidesteps, and nearly topples as he struggles to overcome the imbalance. He is out of reach of the two closest officers, but as he slips and flops, storm blinding, mud sucking at his boots, he lands square in the open arms of the largest and slowest lieutenant. The captain and remaining officer spring forward to bully Reno, leaving Cloud to have it out under the shadow of Zack’s ignited house alone.

He is clamped onto from behind so tightly that he swears his spine cracks at least twice, and then he’s spinning, being tossed and thrown to the gritty slurry at their feet as carelessly as a nuisance. He crash lands, front first, taking the brunt of the collision to his fleshy palms and unprotected knees. He doesn’t get a chance to recover and find out where he’s landed, the rain pummels his head and the lieutenant advances, kicking him square in the gut.

Cloud sails far and wide, his rucksack lost. His chest constricts, breath elusive, and then it’s no longer an issue, because that’s lost too. A bright flash lights behind his eyes, sparking, flaring, forcing them wider. The changeable, overcast sky and every translucent water droplet cascading overhead dazzles in glittering relief. He blinks and coughs, cloudburst smattering his face, eyes and tongue. His hair and clothing are mud soaked.

The dew flicks away as he shakes and shudders. He grabs his middle and rolls: a victim, the loser. Using his trembling primary arm for leverage, he tucks both legs under himself to get to his knees and yet another vulnerable position. He makes to rise, and to fight, and to forge ahead. This time, the lieutenant gives him the chance to suffer and recoup.

His head is rushing with air, with blood, with words of damnation. It's packed tightly, static snowfall, and then, he again sees the overwhelming blaze, and all is crystal. He can hear the wind and the rain, and Reno struggling and cursing, and trying to fend off the other two officers. He can see the winking outline of his waiting opponent.

“Come on, pussy,” the lieutenant sneers at him.

The fear, the worry, the pain… Yeah, let’s add anger too. So much of it. Rage in opulence. A fucking cornucopia of madness. Truck loads of livid. Handfuls of fury. Barrels of indignation. 

Cloud stands and, graciously, he remains standing. He shakes his head and blinks away the sparks and stars. The officer grins a feral and toothy grin to egg him on.

He’s of similar height to Cloud, but he’s much wider, heavier, and better trained. He has his gloved fists out, arms level, his back to the combustion. He wants to fight hand-to-hand. His rifle is swinging somewhere around at his rear from the strap slung across his chest. If he wanted to call it even and finish him quick, he could just whip it around and gun Cloud down. 

Cloud merely grins back, ribs twinging. He knows the score. He lifts his own sopping fists, not nearly as large or threatening, and accepts the outcome, bullets, battering, blisters and all.

“Gonna feel pretty bad beating up on such a beautiful face…” the lieutenant notes.

Cloud is on his remark, lips and teeth parting, tongue lifted... but, two gunshots send them both ducking and dropping low. His clout is killed just like that. He’s right back to fear, worry and pain.

They hunch and look to the captain, Reno, and the other lieutenant. There are only two now. It's Reno against the damn captain. The lieutenant’s comrade is laid out in the soil. He moves none at all, the results of Reno’s 45. handgun making full contact.

And, speaking of Reno... He is a sight to behold. He dances and bounces, using his slipping feet and his long reach to his advantage, dodging and deflecting each strike from the captain’s fancy officer’s sword. His handguns are small but they’re a part of him, an extension. He’s using their sides and snouts to block what he can, unable to aim and fire again as he slides and sways. Those incoming attacks fall faster and faster, now a lunge, now a swing; metal clangs and sings.

The liquid pours down a silver screen between them backlit by the white-orange fire. Cloud doesn’t hear his adversary coming (thanks to both that and watching Reno for all of seconds) and gets tackled and flattened. He grunts and slams backwards into the mire, head bouncing with a splash, hair again drenched in grit and muck washing into his eyes.

The lieutenant effortlessly hoists him up by the collar of his loose jacket. The rain spits on, drenching, frigid, fitting. It was a rookie mistake. Cloud grabs for the fist, but doesn’t have much for it. He has no choice but to follow the insistent demands.

He arcs and gasps, sucking in topsoil and rainfall. He coughs, grunts and growls, tugging and pulling at the arm, elbows and boots trying to jab and kick by habit, slipping in result. Notes of his childhood. Notes of years on the streets. Notes of Sephiroth and... a little bit of Reno. He doesn’t have the strength of position or the strength of body to do anything but dangle.

The lieutenant forces them upright, soaked and sodden, spinning Cloud around to face the bout. His arms press along Cloud’s throat and chest to keep him controlled and quiet.

“Watch, watch…” the officers gusts into his ear. “Watch your boyfriend dance...”

Reno takes his first hit of damage, spinning away from a cut that leaves his t-shirt split and hanging at his side. Otherwise, he’s still in one piece. He’s alive. He’s doing his best.

Cloud’s heart thunders and kicks, his hips twist and jerk, his fingers wrench and wrest. He can’t look away if he wanted to. And he might want to. He might want to hide and shut down and wait everything out until he’s ready, even as he wants to shatter and stop thinking and fretting, and beating _himself_ up, and just dish it out. He’s on the edge. He’s slipping between the cracks. He’s being forced to live in every potential snip and nick and missed connection, Reno narrowly escaping. Tired and cold and soaked to the bone, he’s going to falter. And here it comes.

A forward slash from the captain bites at Reno’s face and jugular. Reno rears back violently and slips in the mud, a wild shot from his pistol going off as he drops to a knee.

The captain recoils.

“Hah!” Reno crows from the ground, victorious. He presses what remains of his left hand, pistol and all, to his slashed throat. It’s not doing its job well. Blood oozes and runs down his naked wrist, rinsing clean at his forearm in the constant shower.

The captain abides. He stops to regard his sword arm. He was hardly struck by the projectile. The bullet tore only a grazing wound and a bit of fabric from his jacket sleeve. It’s nothing fatal and absolutely not a good sign. The storm and his uniform hide the more gruesome details but he will only be slower now, if anything. Reno’s injury is far worse.

Cloud struggles and grapples, not willing to endure the injustice as the victim and bystander anymore. The house is at their backs. Zack is at their backs. He can feel the heat on his neck. He can see Gongaga outlined in long, shifting shadows, disturbed by the condensation filtering through.

He has to get free. He has to help Reno. He has to get to Zack. He has to get into that house and through that fire. This is taking too long, _way too long_. He shouldn’t have bolted forward without notice. He couldn’t waste anymore time. They’ve got to hurry _now, now, now_.

With a great tug, he forces the lieutenant’s arm from his throat and shouts, “Reno!” 

Losing the grip just as quickly, Cloud pays for it. The lieutenant retightens his hold, the crook of his arm clamping shut all passage for air, making Cloud choke and claw. His numb and slick fingers find fleeting purchase. Those dancing, dazzling stars come back.

“Drop it,” Reno advises the captain, indicating his sword. “Drop it and walk away.”

They’re facing each other, Reno and the captain, a distance in separation from Cloud and the last remaining lieutenant. In their shifting and posturing they’ve meandered across the plaza and several yards from Zack’s house. The captain has his sword raised, Reno has his pistols drawn and aimed. That gap between them is little more than a stone’s throw, the blade taking up most of it. It’s a stand off. A moment that should have been in Reno’s favour.

“I’m a good shot!” Reno offers, loud and excited. “I’m a hell of a _fucking_ shot.”

“You’re full of shit, fire-crotch,” the captain roars back. “You don’t have a chance. You’re shaking like a _dog_ and... missing _fingers_. That was all _luck_ just now!”

“I didn’t miss! You’re bleeding and _he’s_ dead. Think that counts as a hit. And I’m cold, so what? It’s fucking winter, pissing down _and_ I’m in a short sleeve!” Reno pauses momentarily, sucking in a breath, keeping that pistol up and ready; keeping his gashed throat compressed. “Missing fingers? Anybody ever tell ya you’re _cross-eyed_ , yo? I’ll still kill ya with a _glare!_ ” 

“Hey!” the lieutenant calls out to them.

As the closest to Cloud and his captor, the captain glances first. Reno follows up late, caving in to the desire despite his probable knowledge and obvious reluctance.

His cock-sure smirk fades just a shade. It’s a split-second expression; the barest bit of apprehension flitting across his rain and hair obscured face. It’s draining of blood but filling with love and fear. It’s lurking there, and it shouldn’t be. Cloud hates it. 

“Looks like you’re out of luck, pal,” the captain notes, turning back to gesture at Reno with his sword blade. “Drop it. _You’re_ done. Your buddy’s dead. I’m guessing Zack was with you guys? _You’re_ the cavalry? _You’re_ all the fuss? Why would you be here otherwise? He’s charcoal. The Director burned him up! Don't let little blondie be next!”

Reno looks on the captain, eyes seeming to narrow, aim staying faithful. He’s probably going to do something incredibly ill-advised just to match, if not supercede, Zack’s act of selfless sacrifice. If it plays out how Cloud thinks it’s playing out in Reno’s head, things might go something like…

Reno will forfeit his advantage on the captain to aim, fire, and kill the lieutenant holding Cloud. A single shot; a precise shot. He will not be able to stop the officer’s sword as a repercussion. The captain is too close and Reno will need all that precious time to focus on his mark. The sword will pierce Reno’s vulnerable middle, or slash his front, arms, face, throat. Reno will take out the captain afterwards, of course (some kind of dramatic and skilled gut or head burst), but that will spell the end for him. There goes the second best bodyguard Cloud would ever have.

Cloud gets a sense of things before then. The air, the wind, the breath of the world and the officer pressed close. Here’s his every taxed inhale and exhale to join in. Here’s his blood thumping hard and fast. Here’s the water and the wet, a constant torrent weighing down every leaf and hair and moment. Here’s the fire roaring, climbing up like a great wall, stretching and steaming, and winning. Here’s the past, the path, experiences leading up to now, and then… Here he comes. He’s stepping forward (a shadow, a memory, a figure, a god, a desire, a love), splitting the darkness, defying the odds, defending him always—here comes a sense of Zack.

Cloud’s fingers dip into his palms; his molars click solid; his heart skips a long beat.

 _I love you more_ , Zack told him.

 _Well_ , Cloud thinks, angrily forcing his weak body to comply… _I love you MOST._

A flash of ultra blue scorches the sky for a blink, pre-dawn to full day and back to midnight in an instant. It stops the downpour with it, evaporating every water droplet falling in that narrow moment; sucking dry every breath; stunning every one of them. It’s just a pause, a break, the fall pouring down once more as the aura fades. The cascade impacting, a sudden rush and roar of water, proceeds the actual impending calamity. 

Mixing, violent colours, sensations, memories, half-thoughts. Cloud’s reeling, falling, burning, boiling, and then ice cold, but he’s not lost. He’s only ever been wandering, not lost.

The world around him is replaced with a blast of white and red. The air rends, ear-bursting, and then comes enveloping shade, a curtain drop, lights out. He’s scrambling to find his center. He won’t give up. He’ll claw for the surface. He’ll thrash and fuss.

Fuck every potential failure and his every traitorous muscle, and the weight, this _god-awful_ weight on his chest. Fuck the belated, latent breath, hot and smoky, choking in his empty lungs. Fuck his weakness of body and his every fated folly, because here _he_ comes.

He’s coming back.

 

 

_Status: Ex-bodyguard - Location: Gongaga_

The explosion clears the playing field.

Reno is taken clean off his feet and tossed up onto a front porch, almost landing in an abandoned rocking chair. He glances to the side instead, dropping and thumping his head on the exterior paneling of the house. He finds relative safety, removed from anymore surprises. 

He’s up in a flash, twitching at the buzz in his ears and the spray of rain pelting his chest. His eyes don’t want to adapt or focus. It’s a flickering blackboard out there, spotted with twinkling bonfire stars. He’s only seeing in shimmering snatches, here and there, flirting with fact and his dangerous imagination. Nothing is static, but it is improving.

He steps forward, wavering. His sinuses are singed with the heavy smells of firewood and dust, brittle and dry. His head throbs. His chest aches. He needs a drink. He shuffles down the porch steps and into the plaza now a mud bowl. The tempest hasn’t let up.

He’s not seeing any figures just yet. The fire has died and dimmed, having been dispersed and spread out in the sudden blast. No one is standing in the uneven clearing ahead. The house went all at once. The structure is gone, only a foundation of sizzling fire and debris remains.

_Oh, shit._

“Cloud?”

He waits. He wheels and turns. He scans the ground.

There are bits of roof and wooden beams laid about the plaza. An overhanging palm tree is struggling to light. Another house is in danger of catching but, just like everything else, it's just too damp. This must be chunks of fabric and traces of furniture. That could be the half of a wall intact and smashed dinnerware, and a body, _wait, go back_. That’s the first guy. That was the jerk he shot on a lucky whim. _Oh, wait. Stop, stop._ Here’s another one. But, again, this is just the captain he had trouble with. He’s been peppered by the force of the explosion. He’s a charred pincushion filled with woody shrapnel.

“ _Cloud!_ ” Reno calls, moving forward, but he has to stop.

It’s high contrast in the dim, even muddied and cast down: Cloud’s blond hair.

He rushes in, not slipping, not failing, and finds them half-hidden underneath rubble and splinters of wood and lazy flames, despairingly close to the house’s original standing. The lieutenant has been stuck through the middle by a metal pipe. Something thick, sturdy, vertical (like a point of interest marker) and probably plumbing related. Cloud is pinned beneath him. 

The kid is unconscious upon first glance; wet and desperate. The lieutenant must have been tossed right into him as the house went critical. It either saved Cloud’s life, or not at all.

Reno wants to tear the refuse off him and scoop him up, but if that pole… If he’s…

“Cloud,” Reno utters, mumbled under the gale. He strenuously withholds his touch and staves off the inevitable knowing. “You better not be. You _can’t be. You can’t_.”

Cloud twitches and groans. His head is tossing, side to side, a negative movement, a _no no no_ , like he’s in high disagreement already and he doesn’t even know the start of the situation. He opens his eyes, one cracking first, the other blinking and closing tight against the squall. He tries to lift up, stopped by the weight laid on top of him. He splashes back and winces.

“ _Stop_ ,” Reno barks. “Don’t move. I don’t know if… Don’t know if…”

_You’re in one piece._

“Reno?” Cloud groans, withered and rasped.

He’s not recognizing him anymore beyond that. That’s all Reno gets. In the next few moments, Cloud is resurrected and just too damn busy trying to extricate himself from the body and the pipe to have a conversation or offer a preface of any kind.

No longer (if ever) concerned with his bodyguard’s concerns, Cloud lifts up again, grunting and groaning, tearing at the mess atop him, hands bloodied and dripping, mostly slipping.

Reno goes on high (panic) alert, but it doesn’t take him long to realize Cloud’s not in dying and speared agony, he’s just in _agony_. He’s crying out and trying to get himself freed so he can get to the damn house that’s still crackling and hot over Reno’s shoulders. He wants to get to Zack. He doesn’t even see Reno. He doesn’t feel anything but that crazed desire to know.

Reno jumps to it, angry and beyond done, crying out with him. He’s so very tired, turbulent, taxed, and _terrible_. He yanks at the body by the scruff of its scorched uniform, throwing caution to the wind. He just needs to help. He just needs to do something, _come on_ , COME ON.

With Cloud pushing up from below and him pulling from above, they raise the stone cold lieutenant and the scattered, threaded debris enough for him to wiggle out. Cloud uneasily rises, shaking and soaked. There’s so much red it’s pooling where he stands as it runs off him.

Reno’s heart thuds a nasty note, throat catching and closing, skin tingling gooseflesh. He’s looking at Cloud (dumbfounded, amazed, imagination in overdrive) and Reno is still not comprehending, because the kid should be dead. He must have been gored with the officer and just... hasn’t felt it yet due to adrenaline. He’s so frail, so damn pale, and hurtling forward.

“ _Zack_ ,” he croaks, a haunted corpse.

Reno snaps out of it late, lurches late, and misses him.

Cloud bounds by into the dwindling fire, trampling over what must have been the front door and the exterior wall; tripping into what must have been the living room; passing through fire and wreckage and misfortune to do so.

Reno flounders in the mud and then joins him, springing across the licking flames and remains. His late coming is not without a penalty. He does not prevent disaster. 

Cloud is screaming, in any varying degree of physical and emotional pain. His boots are burning and melting in the smouldering foundation, his palms scorching and blackening as he blindly searches and swivels. His clothes are too wet to catch, but they would have. He’d be a damn fireball. He’s lucky the house isn’t whole; he’s lucky they’re both half dead anyway.

Reno swears loudly, colourfully, cacophonously, and then he swears he can’t do this, but he has to. He hurries to grab him and tears him back, braving the furnace and the misery, praying for the cold rain and the muddy plaza. He’s got to hold on, or else. _Or else_.

“ZACK,” Cloud howls. Over and over.

_Zack, Zack, Zack!_

He’s thrashing, fighting him, frenzied and furious.

Oh, fuck. Reno can’t take it. Tears and terror. Cloud’s gone. No one’s home.

“Let me go!” he begs. “Zack! _Zack!_ ”

Through it all and his withered body, and immeasurable resolve, and depthless stubborn fortitude, and need for liquor—Reno drags Cloud clear, wrestling him from the smoldering structure and back into the plaza behind them. He’s not yet feeling the extent of his own damage, he is burdened with Cloud, who is focused on pitching a fit, hollering and sobbing.

What’s left of the house burns on, hissing and popping in the rain that falls, steady and sterile. There’s nothing left. Cloud is gone. The house is gone. And that must mean the Director is gone. Good riddance. But, you know, that also means… Zack must be gone too.

Desperate to get forward, determined to reach what remains of the structure, Cloud rages on. His two wide eyes are glittering globes. His gaping mouth is a working slash; his gnashing, biting teeth a stubborn edge. His thinning voice carries long and loud into the night.

_Zack, Zack, Zack!_

No animals will want to hang around anywhere near this place after tonight. People will spin tales of Gongaga being haunted from here on out. Any distant traveler will listen for wailing as they drift by, fearful of the abandoned town on the cliff.

Cloud is not strong, but he _is_ undaunted. Reno’s still got the edge on him, even in the state that he’s in. Nothing beats his fits of fury. As tapped and dragged out and pissed off as he is, he’s still able to hold Cloud back. He sneers, and spits, and complains, and threatens.

It’s not been his favourite of pastimes (it never was), or without its negative ramifications and scarring (because he’s breaking), but he’s not letting him do it. He won’t allow Cloud to dig through the dirt and the despair. He won’t let him bury his sanity in the ashes.

“Let me go! Let me fucking _go!_ ” Cloud bellows.

Reno does not. He can listen to him cry and moan and die inside all day long, no matter how much it churns up his insides too, but he won’t let Cloud hurt himself. No way. Not anymore. And yet, he won’t be able to hang on much longer either. He doesn’t have much left, truly. Not in this moment; not in this scenario; not even for a snide remark. 

Without much warning, for himself or for Cloud, he readies to do what he held out doing when Zack left them. He’ll daze him to save him. He cocks back his arm and makes a fist. He hates himself enough already as it is. He’s disappointed and he’s dethroned. He’s never been lower. He’s not even looking at his own nasty bullshit long enough to get a good idea and it’s _still_ smarting him this much. He’s really screwed. What’s a little more pain and punishment? 

There’s a minor variation to the plan this time. He leaves his pistol in its holster, but the results are the same. He doesn’t whip him, he just socks Cloud between the eyes, sending his head snapping back with such force that he’s reeling, falling away, arms whirling for support.

Reno lugs and spins him around, cradled and corralled. The kid’s struggle is defused, but not over. He slumps and grabs for his face. He digs in his heels and locks his legs.

“Stop,” he gurgles, awash in the stupor.

“No, _you_ ,” Reno retorts. “I told you. There’s _nothing there!_ ”

“ _Stop_ ,” Cloud repeats, but he’s sliding to the ground.

Reno hangs on, all wrung out. He grips Cloud tightly, unable and unwilling to let him go. They both sink to their knees in the yuck and the ooze, centered in the flaming carnage of town square. 

Cloud becomes just a weightless, trembling frame and a soggy head pressed to his chest. He’s heaving and shuddering and moaning. He’s a bloodied and muddied mess. They’re both drenched, dripping, and stained red. The storm is an unbiased shower and the wind unflagging. Reno’s feeling the sting and stretch of his burned and cut flesh the longer they sit. He’s feeling the sting and burn of reality.

He spun Cloud around to remove the temptation and trigger from his sight. Reno’s having to stare right at it instead, smoking, crackling and taunting. Is this what victory looks like? Victory is a burned out house? They’re alone now. They’re both alone. No Zack, no Vegas. The rain won’t wash this away. Reno fucked up. He should retire. He should be _retired_.

He’s very thin and drawn out. He’s feeling rather far-flung, unhinged, and he’s blinking more and more slowly. Has he mentioned he _needs_ a drink? He sucks in a weary breath and struggles to replace it. He’s lost loads of blood by now. He almost forgot he was slashed in the throat, but he doesn’t feel it, and he doesn’t much care. He doesn’t feel much of anything. It’s growing, reminding, nagging, but he’s too cold; too shitty. Maybe he’s next on the death list.

He could get an infection. Who knows? With all the wet and the muck around, the wound could fester. They’re miles out from any sort of clinic or medical facility, or vendor. That’s just another annoying way to go. _How did you die?_ Part two. _Poison? Nah. An infection got me. That’s right. In the blood. Nasty stuff. Died in gut-wrenching agony._

The burns crawling up his arms start to itch and torment. The cold isn’t numbing enough. He went in their after Cloud without his hoodie to shield him. He knows he’s crispy. They both are. At least Cloud had the advantage of wearing his rain-soaked track jacket. However, to Cloud’s bane in particular, neither of them had been wearing gloves. Reno’s not sure about his own fingers. He had a difficult enough relationship with them already.

Reno’s not in any hurry to find out the extent of their hurts. He’s not sure on timeline either. Time simply is. It floats and it ebbs; rarely does it flow. Things get a little funny for him. He’s sure he blacks out at some point. It’s not for long and happens between sitting in the ice-cold slurry, and Cloud sobbing and moaning, and the evacuation of Reno’s soul—or maybe that was a dream, but it’s more likely reality, again, _fuck everything_ , everything, _everything. Fuck it all_.

They stay motionless for minutes maybe hours, turned to days, to years, a lifetime. They stay until every last fire has been drowned out; until Cloud has no more voice, and the night utterly takes them, rushing in to fill the absence of the evidence of life and their foolish hopes.

He has to get them out of here. But where to? Where but here? His first uneasy thought might be too ambitious and too far in the future, but his first thought is the Gold Saucer, and then Cosmo Canyon, and then nothing, defeat, blank.

He’s not familiar with defeat. His brother didn’t believe in letting him be moody, or sad, or even a little off. He knew better. He knew Reno needed it or things would get ugly. He always managed to talk, annoy, or bribe him out of it in the end. With him out of the picture, Reno has been struggling to find positive.

What positive is there now especially? Zack’s dead. Cloud’s checked out. Shinra is close by (but probably not interested). They’re both injured. They’re both on foot. They’re both jobless. Anywhere Reno is to go he has already been, thanks to his previous occupation, but that isn’t a plus. He might have a lot of connections thanks to Shinra, but he also has more debt because of them too. And Vegas isn't around to play pacifier anymore.

Heading to Cosmo Canyon means an angry medicine man and few amenities. That could end badly. Going the route of the Gold Saucer, down into the dust bowl and bad memories and poor decisions, means _all_ of the amenities and _several_ (if not _many_ ) angry people. He could stay on his toes and watch their backs, but it could bite him in the ass and… end badly.

They’re basically the same span from here, so travel is not a factor. It’s really a choice of the lesser of two evils, and that’s not going to be easy. He won’t be getting any help on this one. He’s accustomed to additional input and Cloud hasn’t said a word. He hasn’t attempted to get up again, and he hasn’t stopped his shaking. He’s a complication and the main player. He is paramount. Reno’s got to focus on the task at hand, and where they go right now, step one.

“Can you…” Reno finally croaks, choking on the first try. “Can you... _get up?_ ”

No answer.

“I can’t feel my _legs_ …” Reno groans. “Or my… _hands_ … or my _lips_ …”

Still no answer.

“ _Yo_. Ya _hear_ me?”

He fumbles and sloshes and teeters, moving to get his legs underneath him. Cloud reacts little, only going with the commotion. He sways, not making to follow or offer his assistance. He would have slumped forward, impending full face plant, if Reno hadn’t deflected and corrected him.

The process isn’t a smooth or painless one, but Reno eventually gets himself separated. Now he just needs to assess Cloud’s condition. At least, a little bit. Enough to feel confident in moving him.

He crouches close, keeping his hands on him, cautious and careful, aware that he still might bolt or collapse. They both won’t stop shaking, to his complete aggravation, so he can’t make out much. Reno needs to get them dry. They’ll both need something warm too. He needs a new jacket and… a hard drink. He needs to get Cloud up first.

His fingers and arms have gone dumb and numb from the sustained position and the sharp cold. They don’t want to obey. His right hand won’t make a solid fist, and his left is fairly useless. His already compromised shoulder won’t let him lift his arm any higher than a few inches from his side. All that tossed out the window, stubbornness at full blast, Reno makes to hoist Cloud up, giving it an honest try, but. He doesn’t get far.

Burning, stinging, airy head. He lets him go and almost falls backwards. He shambles and steadies, hunching and drained. His chest is watery, muscles a mess of aches, flesh a rash of chars and the twisting of cuts. Let’s not even mention his shoulder anymore…

Reno’s beat up, run out, almost been murdered; almost been pummeled. He was slashed at and exploded, poisoned, electrocuted and head-butt, and yet here he is, _always_ , ready with a grin and a snappy reply. And, to his good fortune, Cloud’s gotten to his feet for him.

He’s swaying and ready to fall but Reno jumps out and steadies him, receiving only the back of his jacket in return. Cloud is dead weight toppling towards the ugly scene. Reno firmly insists he rethink the action and jerks him several steps back, sliding in to plant himself between the ruin and Cloud. He strains to cover the exercised effort and growing annoyance.

“There’s nothing _there_ ,” Reno grits, standing firm, chest to chest.

“Move,” Cloud growls.

“He’s _dead_.”

“No, he isn’t.”

“He’s—”

“ _No, no, no, no_ …” 

“Cloud,” Reno groans, “Don’t—”

But, Cloud gets the message (one he surely knew already) and again slumps into Reno’s arms, headed back to the saturated ground. He’s crying afresh. That awful crying. That afflicted and dying sound. That loss of hope. Reno lets him drop. He glances up and away, gnashing his teeth, rolling his jaw, not wanting to see anymore distress, and follows him, down, down, down.

The masked moon is hiding from them, a single hidden eye lighting their stage. It’s a dismal setting. The ground is a bog, the rain now light, and the town abandoned. There are dead here and there. There are traces of Zack’s house and his past throughout.

Reno didn’t plan for this. For all of the scheming he does (and did), he rarely planned for the worst case, the after, the fallout. How foolish, right? It’s inevitable though. You can’t plan for everything. You can’t control anything. He was stronger then, lighter then. He could have done this… He _should_ have done that… But, he didn’t. He lost Vegas. And now he lost Zack.

“He’s _dead_ , Cloud. I’m…”

His eyes are burning, stinging, filling; his sinuses draining and running.

_Oh, shit. Come on, Reno. Hold it together._

“There’s... _nothing left_ ,” he growls, finishing angry; finishing ruined.

The storm stops sometime after Cloud stops too. He’s just sniffling now, hunched over, his hair drying in stiff, muddy clumps. He has no more tears. He has no more fluid even as he’s inundated with it. His clothes are a loss, both red and black and hanging heavily. He hasn’t had the energy to rise up again. He only faces the wreck, down on his knees, down in the sorrow.

Reno urges himself up, finding a second (third, fifth, twenty-third) wind and collects Cloud, finally hauling him out of the mud and up onto a porch like a man wounded at war. He doesn’t do much with him after that. He stares down on him as he occupies the steps, knees pulled in, head hung over his lap, spine in stark relief, bones on top of bones. He looks like little brother wearing big brother’s old duds.

Reno catches his breath and looks out across the town square. Morning is coming in a few hours, night is dragging on, the storm and the terror have passed. For now. They won’t be going anywhere soon (if either of them can help it). They’ll need shelter and supplies before then. And a drink. Reno can get them dry, get them warm, get them fed. And then.

And then?

He doesn’t know. Was it Gold Saucer? Or Cosmo Canyon? Or a bullet?

Why is he still _here_? What happened to him? What happened to Zack? What happened in that house? Why did it blow up? There isn’t a gas stove between this entire fucking settlement. Was it even an explosion? Was it mako? Did Zack protect them to his very end? Was that really Cloud’s legendary boyfriend watching out for him even in death? Was he the cause and the cure? Or was it the Director? Huh? Why won’t Reno feel good about this? Why can’t Reno just shrug this off? The guy annoyed him. He was an asshole. He abhorred him until several hours ago. He was selfish and false and... absolutely human. This is what Reno wanted, right? This is exactly the jam: just him and Cloud. That’s it. He fucking asked for it.

_He fucking asked for it._

He hasn’t slept in days. He won’t sleep tonight. Oh, no. That’s his next installment, isn’t it? _How did you die?_ Part three. Sleep deprivation, kids. No one’s ever heard of someone dying of lack of sleep, but you sure hear about the ridiculous shit they get themselves into.

The structure he dragged Cloud to is the next closest neighbour of Zack’s crater that _isn’t_ riddled with flung bits of formerly burning house. The plaza is quiet and still. Eaves and jungle leaves are dripping. The sky is clearing. Among the stars and shredding clouds, the moon peeks half-lidded through the crowns of the highest trees. It’s a fitting setting for a lost cause.

Reno sniffs and bites his cheek. _Stop thinking. Start doing._

“I’m bringing you inside,” he says, not expecting a reply.

He doesn’t get one.

He drags Cloud backwards across the landing and into the house’s living room.

The door wasn’t locked. Most of the houses are probably open for business. Most of them will probably have whatever the occupants left behind that was too much or too big to carry. There’s a fireplace he can start, but he doesn’t like the idea of drawing anyone’s attention with light.

He leaves Cloud in the center of the main room, propped against a sofa’s armrest, and moves deeper into the house to make a quick sweep. Living room, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, bedroom. Okay. He returns to Cloud.

“Sorry about all this,” Reno grumbles. His slashed throat pulls painfully.

He drags Cloud to the first bedroom and leaves him canted there in the threshold. He hastily stalks back across the front room to close the front door he forgot to deal with the first time. He’s halfway back to the bedroom when it hits him. He has to swivel around. He comes to the front door, _again_ , locks the deadbolt, and then reaches Cloud.

“Oh, shit.”

He has slipped from the doorframe and spilled out onto the bedroom rug. 

“My bad,” Reno groans, easing him upright. 

And there, he has to balk.

He’s getting a good bead on him now that Cloud’s hair has fallen away some. He doesn’t like what he’s seeing. He doesn’t like the cold coming off of him. He doesn’t like how his head hangs loose on its base, or how his eyes are distant and glassy. He’s not seeing him at all. His mouth is parted; his muddy hands flopped in his lap, palms up. Reno almost knows him best this way.

“Cloud,” he whispers, his throat stinging an aggressive note.

Nothing. Not a damn thing. Not even the flutter of eyelashes at his wafting breath. He brushes the hair off his forehead and out of his eyes, tucking it behind the shell of his ears. His face is bruised, cut and clay-caked underneath. He’s soot and sorrow, and a lovely, purply black eye forming. He’s fresh battle scars. And he’s run far, far away, deep inside himself.

“I’m gonna…” Reno starts, having to swallow and wet his throat to continue. “I’m gonna, uh. Get you undressed, yo. I just… don’t want it to be a surprise or anything. Don’t be—” He reaches a hand to his throat now, the sudden spike in pain alerting his instinctive self-preservation. He feels the radiant heat there but doesn’t want to go any further. “ _Ouch_.”

No more wasting time.

He starts pulling at Cloud’s sleeve cuffs.

“Ya can’t hear me anyway, can you?”

He carefully unzips the front of his jacket, having some trouble. He’s absolutely terrified of the terrible things he might find the deeper he goes. Mud drops in flaking clumps. Water drips. He’s too damn tired. He’s too damn desperate. He needs a drink. He keeps talking to calm himself. 

“Or maybe you do, and you just don’t want to? Never seems like you want to talk to me. It’s like... it’s an _annoyance_. You always look like… I dunno, man... you want to _get away_. Have I said that already? I feel like I’ve told you everything… I tell you too much...”

He yanks the article off, tossing it sopping into an opposite corner of the room. That just leaves a saturated grey t-shirt (now cherry), black sweatpants (wanting to fall off), and melted boots.

“I can’t blame you. We didn’t meet under the best circumstance, yo. But, you keep giving me chances anyway. That bugs me. I got you to laugh though. I even got you to _smile_ a few times.”

Reno composes, giving himself just a moment, just a beat, and then tears the t-shirt over Cloud’s head all in one go. He discards that in the very same corner. _Slap._

He winces at the sorry image he’s presented with. He can’t help it. He thought Cloud was pale before (e.g. the badlands, Junon, the sea freighter). He thought he was pale back in that damn bedroom. There’s no colour to him but for his extensive bruising and greenish-blue veins. He’s flesh and bones, thin and stretched. And oh, thank whoever still listens to Reno’s wishes, he is also untouched. He was not gored. He is just bruised and burned and frigid.

And totally out to lunch.

“Here comes the fun part.”

He rips the bed sheets back and down. Reno then lugs him up onto the mattress, lifting him from under the arms, his flesh icy against him. He sets him on the edge, removing his boots and socks, not looking at the damaged soles. He is again thankful his feet were protected, because his fucking high-tops weren’t much help. Lastly, before he soaks through his comfy bed, he takes care of Cloud’s pants. This leaves Cloud naked.

Needing to warm him as much as remove him from view, he eases Cloud back and down onto the mattress and gets him covered up, jerking the sheets and comforter high over his chest, right up to his chin. Only then does he realize... Oh, this is a girl’s bedroom. There’s a giant flower on the spread. He can’t help the rush of amusement, but that too passes without a trace.

He looks down on his work, not thrilled with any of it. Not even close. His whole body sags. 

He’s pushing _freaked the fuck out_. How far is that from thrilled? A week? A few days? Maybe it’s distance? How many more steps will he have to take, beaten and bloodied and exhausted, before he’s within eyeshot of _okay_? He is skin and bones too, you know.

“Stay here, yo,” he tells Cloud. “I’ll be right back.”

_Papa needs a drink._

 

 

The night is cool and damp; the skies have cleared and the stars really come out. The empty town is ghostly and silvery-black below. No more fire means no more light. No more villagers means no more light either. He’s skulking in darkness, and he’s not sure he wants that to change. Someone might get curious and come investigate if they see chimney smoke.

His first job is his last desire. It’s a gangrenous wound that boils in his guts, eating him away like the fire that was there only moments before. He finds himself considering the still-steaming ruins of Zack’s house, ready to canvas for any clues or signs of life. No matter how farfetched it is, he won’t be able to live it down if he doesn’t have a good look.

He doesn’t wait around long enough to get cold feet. He steps into the wreckage, confronted by muddy soot and soggy wood. What he plans on finding in here he doesn’t know. Mostly, to be perfectly honest, he’s hoping he doesn’t find anything. Not a damn thing. He doesn’t want to find Vincent as much as he doesn’t want to find Zack. Oh, shit, does he NOT want to find Zack.

He takes it hurriedly, not enjoying the pockets of smoke. As he’s dusting the mess with his foot, he knocks something with his toe. It’s heavy, unlike every other piece of charred something next to it. This is solid. This is heavy. He’s curious, astounded, and then angry again all at once, because he knows what it is. He leans down, makes sure to find the right end, and lifts it up.

It’s the BDS. Perfectly undamaged. Sooty black.

He drops it back down just as quickly. It bounces, tip to butt, and lies still. It’s not hot. It doesn’t sting and sear, but holy shit, does it ever. It’s Reno’s first time hefting it up and he already wants it to be his last. It weighs more than a collapsed sun. It’s so obnoxiously large. It’s a real burden. He can’t leave it here anymore than he could leave a body. It’s their property. It’s important.

He leans down again and retrieves it. Too beat to carry it traditionally, he drags it back to Cloud and the house they’ve commandeered, leaving it on the floor inside. He turns right back around, intending to finish his search, not feeling anymore optimistic, and not feeling anymore stable.

He dives back in, focusing on the center of the demolished structure and about where he found the sword. He’s ready to move on when he stumbles over something in the glistening darkness. He crouches down and gingerly touches, fingers still numb and dumb. It takes him longer than he’ll ever, _ever_ admit, but what he finds in the ashes and the cinder is…

He springs upright and avoids getting any closer. The offending article lies, beckoning and twisted, across from where the BDS was found. It could be… It might be… But. _Shit. Don’t think about it. DON’T. Don’t, don’t, don’t. Do NOT. Oh no. Move on._

He sweeps the rest of the blown open building, going on the double and maybe not as thoroughly as he should have thanks to the anxiety, but he finds the evidence of nothing and no one else. Not a shred, whisper or fingernail. He’s got to get out of here. He nearly bolts back out to the plaza, mud settling up to his ankles.

He stops and works, really _works_ at shoving the terror right back down the way it came, and tells himself, yes, that _skeletal hand_ was probably really there, and exactly what he was afraid of, but most certainly the remains of the Director. That’s it. That’s what he’s going to tell Cloud too if he ever presses him. That will be Reno’s official statement and standing on the matter.

He has to move on. _They_ have to move on. They have to get away from here. Things are grim, and he knew that. He’s going to buck up and expertly use this lonesome, loathsome opportunity of busying himself to detach from the whole stunning, stinging reality. And that very reality is, as he last considers it... Zack _is gone_. He up and vanished, or vaporized, or bolted out the back window, or ascended into space. There was no sign of him but his irritating sword.

Reno doesn’t take another look at the gutted ruins of the house. He’s going to stop asking questions right now, in the present, this dying night, and he’s going to get some relief. He packs the trauma away and will poke at it again never, or on his last day. He doesn’t have the time now, or the energy. He has to survive and keep Cloud safe.

He bounds up the steps to their surrogate house and immediately raids the kitchen. He doesn’t find a single bottle. Not even a dusty source for a special occasion, or a tucked away secret. What a boring family. He’ll have to go next door and take a look then.

He pops in on Cloud before doing just that. He won’t leave him for too long. The kid hasn’t moved in his rest, but his eyes have closed. The flowery comforter rises with his even breath.

Reno enters the house next door and gets to work, tracking mud everywhere. He starts by sweeping the sitting room, gutting drawers and cabinets and tossing contents skittering onto the floor and coffee table. He could care less about whether or not these people are going to come back to their home after all of this is said and done. He is not gentle. He is interested only in what he needs. 

It’s all brute force and indifference until a glass decanter crashes and shatters to the wooden floor, then it’s just him outing his instability. He starts grabbing anything breakable he can get his hands on along his way to the kitchen. He kicks a few things and smashes others. He finds a bottle of whiskey waiting for him inside the second cabinet he rips opens. It’s mostly full, but it’s mostly gone after he opens and lowers it. The burn is atrocious. He gags and coughs.

He drinks and tosses family pictures at the floor. He destroys nick-knacks and claws clothes off hangers while slugging back great messy gulps. He’s breaking vinyl records over his knees. He’s pitching plates and bowls into walls and emptying every cabinet to find more and more ammo. He’s replacing the empty bottle and then kicking doors off their hinges. He’s flipping furniture and slashing curtains and mattresses. He’s full of fire and just wants it all poured out, all of it, every last lick and curl, so he can be empty, weightless, and light again.

He busts a hanging mirror and stands swaying and blinking at the cracked reflection, numb fingers warming in their own juices. The bottle’s boozy contents slosh over his lips as he knocks it back, running a molten line down his ragged throat and across his burned and busted knuckles. He’s feeling fuzzy and distant and fearless. He’s immortal, undead, unruly, untamed.

He stumbles down the house’s front steps, grinning in the violently sated afterglow. He wobbles into the swampy plaza and almost falls on his ass in the muck. He laughs instead, right in the face of misfortune, and death, and a dead friend.

After a long, drunken and fuming search, Reno locates Cloud’s rucksack in the mired mayhem of the town square and then calls it quits. He held onto his trusty rucksack through the entire damn fiasco somehow. He still has all his ammo and worthless effects. Now Cloud does too.

He withdraws from the sullen backdrop of the town, casting the empty bottle of whiskey into the treeline from the front of their assumed house. He didn’t finish it himself. He poured the rest out into the plaza for Zack. He waits a breath and hears no crash.

He hangs his head and turns, stumbling upwards, spilling over the slippery front steps to collide with the doorframe. He swings inside (cleverly remembering to close and lock the front door) and starts his grueling adventure to the bedroom.

He’s gone. He went and checked out. They make such a great pair, him and Cloud.

“This was all... such a fucking... _success_ ,” he mutters to himself. “ _Cheers_. Now just... let me...”

He trips up on the BDS and crashes to the floor.


	37. Chapter 37

_Status: Ex-bodyguard - Location: Gongaga_

He’s going to have to struggle to get back to his feet. He’s beyond sauced and ticked off. He’s flirting with the frayed edges of furious delirium. He thrashes and swears, disentangling from the dirt-heavy rucksacks and kicking at the insufferable sword in a feeble, spent and drunken fit.

It’s an awful injury for an already awful insult. It’s a laugh for a laugh, rock salt on a cut, the twisting of knives, a left hook, and all of that other glorious jazz. The sword is just a plain nasty reminder, and there are no two ways about it. There are plenty of side effects though. 

See: decreased ribbing, snarling, chest puffing; may include heightened anxiety concerning past promises, drawbacks, and failures; confirmed declines in swirling smoke, half-cocked smiles, and bravery. In 100% of cases, _no more Zack_ has been reported.

Here instead is a wound—a flesh and soul eating wound; a blank and gaping absence—rapidly filling with anger, shame, fear, and sorrow (all the colours of the rainbow _and_ his dead brother).

“I know. _I know_ ,” he moans.

He drops back to the floor, covering and rubbing at his face with his filthy and cut hands, and immediately regrets it. He’s spinning. Or everything _else_ is spinning. And it’s way too fast, and the pit of his stomach is dropping out, and then rising, and then so is he. He’s going to puke.

He jerks upright and freezes there, bent over his lap. That’s a little better. That’s _getting_ better. He calms and fills his lungs with super chilled air, over and over, right down his parched throat and into his watery lungs.

He thinks of that absence, that shortage, that deficiency, that _asshole_ , and then he thinks of nothing, true absence, white-out, and the sensation gradually passes, pulsing away, beat after nauseating beat, and he is left again alone, hot and cold, sweating yet freezing. He can attempt to complete his mission of reaching the bedroom. The last desperate push.

He all at once rises (it’s a miracle) and stumbles on, left to right, making that motion take him forwards. He comes to the bedroom’s threshold, grabbing onto it like a sweet, sweet lifeline.

He finds Cloud exactly where he left him: staring up at the ceiling. Only, he’s not staring, because he’s shut down. He’s been far away. And he’s good at that, isn’t he? He’s _really_ good at it. _Too_ good, in fact. He’s like a fearful rodent, a little rabbit, and if something outside his hole spooks him, he bounds back in. Reno doesn’t like it anymore than Cloud probably does. It’s a safety mechanism, something he learned along the way, and something Reno is still very willing to help him _unlearn_.

He readies himself and then pushes off the doorframe to shamble across the rug.

Cloud suits the bed, and the room too. The softness, the colour, the setting. He is child-like, innocent, and Reno feels downright vile and rodent-like himself coming in to disturb him.

It would probably be more appropriate if he went and slept in the other bedroom (or in another damn _house_ entirely), but it’d be more practical if they stayed in the same one, in the very same bed, because it’s fucking _cold_ , one, and two, they’re _both_ fugitives. At least, they're _former_ fugitives. If they could be so lucky. They’ve only got each other now.

Reno’s drunk as a skunk, and he loves his logic. As usual. He doesn’t love how long it takes him to get down to nothing though.

His shoes are soaked and canvas; burned, caked and crumbling. He has to rub and pick at the mess just to get to the damn laces, and then he has to figure out how to make his already impaired fingers figure out the necessary measures in order to _untie_ the laces. They’re cold, and cut bloody by an inconsiderate mirror. And, after that nightmare, he still has to tackle a pair of waterlogged socks and jeans, a gun holster, and a sucked-tight t-shirt. Easy, right?

He might have whimpered.

He’s very, very grateful he’s not sober, and Cloud’s not awake to see or hear any of it, because he’s moaning and groaning (more unfiltered suffering than aggravation), tugging and pulling (getting halfway to nowhere), and hopping about the room (one-legged), all just to get himself bare. But, he is managing. He is winning.

The sopping wet socks are a minor complication, and the jeans aren’t so bad after he gets them over his ankles, a ways beyond his knees, and just tugs. His struggling fingers slip up only twice (on the button and then the tug), ashen throat choking once. He’s halfway there now, almost free, but he’ll need a break before then. He’s not doing so hot. His head is throbbing, stomach acid rising high; guts churning low. If he twists just so, spikes of aching old pain shoot indiscriminately down his spine and stick inside his ribs, inhale after exhale, raspy repeat.

As he catches his breath, feeling it all, he keeps the ball rolling. He slowly undoes his guns and lays them out inside their holster at the side of the bed. As he’s squatting there, he remembers to untuck his brother’s butterfly knife from his dingy jeans, adding that to his cache.

It’s a low bed: a single mattress set on the floor and surrounded by a rustic homemade wooden base. He won’t have to reach far for protection. He’s not convinced they’re out of the woods yet. He’s going to be extra-paranoid-Reno from now on, into whenever.

He’s detecting an ounce of relief and almost proud of himself as it is though. He’s pushing ever on and making progress. He’s finding a way. He’s a stubborn bull, but. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. And it's his damn, ratty-assed thrift store t-shirt that has to threaten that fragile clout.

The soggy fabric is gauzy thin and peels up his moist flesh, binding under the armpits. The one thing he figured would come off no strings attached, alas, and here he is getting bested. He had less trouble with his leather gun holster. He had less trouble with that fucking captain.

“For _fuck’s_ sake,” he growls, turning and twisting his shoulder into a fit just to wrench it off.

Fully dizzy now, and near disaster, he flings the wet garment at the wall and wheels, making for the endzone. He swallows every bit of discomfort and doubt, wobbling and sloshing, seeing double the long shadows, but he manages. He climbs into bed with Cloud naked as the day he was born.

That isn't easy either, of course. Not half frozen and half broken, and mostly intoxicated. He has to crawl over Cloud and then maneuver under the blankets, just to have to wriggle, adjust and readjust again. He doesn’t want to lie on his tortured shoulder. With him on Cloud’s left like this, closest to the wall, he can see the door and lean over him to grab for a pistol from the floor if need be. If the need arises. Hopefully he’ll arise too. And his ordeal will be less dire. Or over.

Cloud is still rather cool and moist as he cozies up to his exposed side. Reno’s not yet relishing the act, he’s hypothermic and sick and tired. His hair is sopping down his back. His stomach is angry. He’s grimy and slimy and pathetic. He wouldn’t have enjoyed it any more had he been perfectly healthy. He is emotionally compromised. And he’s damage control. _Again_. He’s Reno the second pony. Time to buck up and sink into survival mode. They’ve been here before. Twice. Same situation; two different settings. They can conquer this anew.

He doesn’t seem to be disrupting him any. The blond frowns, in that way that he does (two golden eyebrows tilting inward), but he doesn’t pull away, roll or even shift. Reno takes that as a good sign and coils right in, wrapping around him and assuming any and all free space.

He comes to rest on his right side, hair soaking through the pillow, head propped half on his good shoulder, good arm thrown over their heads. His bad arm he musters over Cloud’s bare chest, keeping him covered and close. His left leg he bends and inches up Cloud’s thighs and hips: a clinging embrace keeping him contained and closer still. He becomes just limbs. The pain is constant but bearable. He holds and overlays him; a human blanket, chest to chest, flesh to flesh.

Reno’s out before he starts spinning again, or gets to enjoy the warmth of their pressing and the thawing of his bones.

 

 

No dreams. At least, no remembering. Reno gets to forget he exists for a while. When he does wake up, all at once, he’s feeling a thousand times worse, and it’s still dark outside. Either they’ve slept through the entire day and into the next night, or the sun hasn’t quite come up yet.

He’s not quick to move. He closes his eyes just as suddenly, shutting out the hurt, the disappointment, and the stinging of the arctic winter air. He can feel Cloud beside him, still breathing evenly, still warm and pleasant, and lover close. He can more steadily feel his own heavy chest, those excitedly vocalizing burns from the fire, the throbbing of his cut up knuckles and throat, his every stiff muscle, a headache throbbing away, and a raw and real thirst.

He lets his eyes open again. They adjust and move around the small room. The door is still open and their few things are still strewn on the floor rug, wet and muddy. Reno blinks and blinks, wetting his dry eyes, victim to every ache and burn. It feels like the set-up to a nightmare, but time only passes. He eventually tracks just his eyes over to find Cloud staring right back.

“Oh,” he blurts, throat scratchy raw.

He knows Cloud’s looking at him (he couldn’t be looking anywhere else), but he doesn’t quite know the depth of the expression. His features are obscured, his hair mussed; face masked, inky, but it’s also loose, not tense or tight. There’s remnant mud and grit marring the pillow and his not-as-blond head. It’s so still in the room Reno could hear him blinking if he tried.

“Hello, beautiful,” Reno offers, just as scraped and whittled down.

He tilts his head to get a better view of him and groans at the surge of negative commentary. His skull, shoulder, and guts let him know, with a roar and shout, just how deep he’s in.

“Oh, shit,” he mumbles, jerking himself over Cloud just in time.

He loses his lunch there, right over the side of the bed. If he had a lunch to lose, that is. It’s all bile and acrid booze. He feels no better when he realizes he missed his guns and knife. He feels no better when the upset passes and he can again relax, because he _can’t_ relax. Not really. There is no relaxing here. His head throbs on all the harder. His throat is melting away, yet so very sticky dry. His protesting body is weak and shaky. It all feels so final.

He wipes at his mouth, swallows, and leans back next to Cloud at last.

“Sorry. Fuck. Feel like road kill,” he complains. “Shouldn’t have had all that…”

He burps and stops right there. 

Cloud only observes, eyes careful and constant.

“We’re gonna... need to… get fixed up… and then _cleaned_ up...” Reno notes, pushing forward, acting casual, inspecting the ceiling, the walls, the pictures hanging, and ineptly ignoring Cloud’s stare, along with the claustrophobia, the escalating terror of uncertainty, and the torrential physical torment dwarfing it all. “I’ve been… wanting a hot shower since _Junon_ … My fucking _hair_ , man. Don’t think I’ll ever get it untangled...”

The sun is starting to rise, light setting in and glowing from the curtained windows.

“We can take turns, don’t worry. I won’t peek. Much. Gonna need meds and new clothes too. And a new plan. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re both in a pretty compromising position right now. I’m probably not the nicest company either. Certainly never the company you _want_ …”

Reno sighs, smelling sick. He’s not getting any feedback.

“I don’t expect you to… I don’t…”

He loses the elusive words to shortness of breath and a tickling cough. Sensitive and tactful was never his bag. He indulges the cough and grabs his sore and throbbing throat, finally feeling the extent of the damage there, but mostly just the crumbling layers of dried on blood. He swallows after much effort, using the interruption to regain some lost gumption. 

“I don’t wanna… _upset_ you. I _never_ do. I like you too much. I just... ah, _fuck it_.” He takes a deep breath before blurting out a recycled (but still relevant) revelation. “I’m here for you, Cloud. You _know_ that. You probably don’t wanna hear any of it either, as usual. But, you’re stuck with me. _As usual_. Don’t do this alone. And don’t fucking make me do this all over again either, ‘cuz I will. Kicking and screaming.” He takes a quick breath, unable to shut up now. “I’ll carry you if I fucking have to. I’ll listen to your self-hating thoughts all day. I’ll let you ramble about him. I’ll tell you when you're dead wrong. Or right. I’ll hold your hair back when you’re sick. I’ll show you a good time. I’ll take every punch and a fucking bullet for you, yo. But, for now... I’ve gotta _piss_.”

Using that cue—the moment already murdered by circumstance, let alone his verbal and literal vomit—Reno climbs over Cloud, careful not to disturb him or any of their temperamental and shared hurts. He is successful in leaving Cloud undisturbed (he can hope), but he causes himself all sorts of undue agony.

It feels less and less undue with every passing moment. This is karma catching up and playing out. This is _what goes around, comes around_. This is what he gets for being of weak moral standing and harboring selfish tendencies, aloof responsibility, sexual eccentricities, and all that other sinful crap. He’s with the last man standing, but he’s leftovers. He's dodged the axe too many times not to have it hit. He has so much debt piled up.

Why is Reno always the one paying the piper? He’s never asking for new tunes. At least, that's his opinion. It’s the same one every time, but the tune has never been pleasing. It’s either the wrong one or not quite right. Maybe he's tone-deaf. He should get a fucking discount.

Having been lingering on the edge of the low mattress, he finally eases off and stands erect, waiting first for his head to slosh into place and level out. His hair is still damp; flesh warm but cooling. His head is packed solid, throbbing those repeated and loud notes at every sudden turn or lift of his dreary head. His left arm is officially out of order. Hunger pangs mix and mingle with dulled nausea. His formerly good hand, slashed from a stupid outburst, is bleeding anew thanks to the recent rash of movement. The extent and severity of his burns make themselves known along both arms, shoulders to fingertips, stretched and incessant.

He groans a dramatic groan, that isn’t nearly as dramatic as it could be, sadly, and takes a single pistol with him, walking the house otherwise bare-assed. He has a plan and a course of action, and it’s going well so far: he keeps his balance and he doesn’t puke.

He stumbles to the bathroom, using walls and determination just to get there. With his bladder emptied and quiet, he can rustle something (anything) up for his suffering. He finds he can’t read any labels in the half light though, and soon stops.

Pain no more dulled, he heads to the kitchen, on the hunt for the biggest drinking glass he can find. The kitchen is not much better lit. He transfers his pistol to his left hand (just for safe keeping) and proceeds one-handed, and more or less defenseless.

He locates the suitable glass in the first cupboard he opens and fills it from the tiny sink to the brim. He slugs down two glassfuls in as many seconds, fresh stinging cuts and red-dribbling knuckles inches from his face. The liquid hits his empty guts ice cold.

He returns to Cloud with the glass slopping and spilling over his fingers. Unsurprisingly, the kid sits straight up to take it from him, spring-loaded, eye contact and manners omitted.

Reno wouldn’t have stuck around to chastise or dote and watch him drink, because he’s got other matters that need his faded attention—it’s starting to get bright outside too quickly for his liking, and they’ll need to move on soon, and the means to do so, because this isn’t a good place to loiter—but, he spies Cloud’s blackened hands grasping the transparent glass.

He remembers the fire glare, the heated panic; his struggles and his screams.

“How are your hands?” he tires.

Not even a glance or sniff. 

Reno relents, despite his wishes, and gives him the moment to hydrate. Cloud isn’t showing any discomfort at present. That’s enough to allow him to leave for now.

He sets down the narrow and dark hall, headed for the next room and the last unexplored portion of the house. There, inside an oversized cherry-stained wardrobe, he finds enough dry and suitable clothing for them both. The water glass is empty and sitting on the floor when he returns with his good arm full of what garments he could grab in one swipe.

Cloud has remained upright on the mattress, but he has hunched. His hair is a helmet of clay particulates, shoulders sagged, spine prominent, arms loose. His disconcerting hands are propped on the tops of his thighs, palms up, black as pitch in the dimness of the room.

Reno sees this, and then he sees his other gun, his knife, his holster, and then his pooling sick. He drops the clothes and second pistol in a heap at the foot of the bed and again visits the bathroom, bringing in several towels to toss over the evidence of his raging bad night.

He stands back, dodges a nasty rush of blood to the head, recovers, and smoothly flicks the loose hair from his eyes. And then he smoothly starts another rambling conversation, keeping that wondrous momentum going. His graveled voice clears and sustains the longer he speaks.

“Sleep well?” 

_Oh, good one._

“You look tired, man. I know I am. I _don’t_ know what time it is though… It’s cold as _fuck_. How are your hands? I’ve got a wet rag here. Let me take a look. Or _you_ can. There might be something in the medicine cabinet, but I can’t tell yet. My eyes won’t focus. We can get back to that. You know... You should take a bath. They have a nice one. Your head is just _covered_ in mud, man. Could keep your hands on the edge... Take advantage, yo. Bet we'll have this place to ourselves for a while. If we wanted…”

Cloud just sits there right on the lip of the mattress, tiny and pale, a fall of dishwater hair and remorse, and Reno stands before him, on the opposite spectrum, as if he wasn’t all naked flesh swinging in the wind and the possible double meaning of his last statement hadn’t hit him late.

For once in his life, especially where Cloud is concerned, Reno hadn’t been insinuating anything sexual. He was being boring and careful. _If we wanted_ , because no one’s going to visit this place anytime soon but they’re sure to leave before then, as the place is a fucking graveyard.

Probably for the worst, Reno leaves the wet rag beside Cloud and flees the scene. His eagerness to have him bathe might only further the impression that he wants to ogle or molest him, but the truth is... Reno can’t hang around and stew in the awkward and helpless atmosphere any longer. He’s got no filters or barriers left, and that’s dangerous.

He’s not much happier moments later.

Gongaga might have plumbing, and this house might have a lovely and large tub, _and_ running water, but they don’t have electricity, hot water OR a shower. They're rural and behind the times. 

He ran the tap for days, his left hand under the fall as the unfortunate tester, and still there was nothing but ice water. It must come from a local spring. He imagines he will have to build a fire in a wood-burning water heater (that’s probably located outside) if he wants it steaming hot, and he does. Even if his guts are roiling and boiling and his flesh is not far behind, he wants to relax and remember being human. The shame is, it’s all a process he doesn’t have enough motor function to carry out or the time and patience to investigate.

“Bad news,” he grumbles on his return. “Hot water is a problem.”

Cloud shakes his head, left to right, grit flying.

“ _What_?” Reno snaps, losing much of his good nature. He _really_ wanted a fucking shower.

Cloud furrows his brow and turns his head, dismissive and ruffled.

“You’re gonna have to _talk_.”

He doesn’t though. Cloud keeps his mouth shut, his head down, and his eyes hidden. He stews and fidgets, those grisly hands twisting one over the other. He looks like he wants to bolt up and run, but Reno gets to him first for once. It’s the perfect opportunity and he’s wise to his antics.

Avoiding his weapons and mess on the floor, Reno drops down on his knees before him.

“This is driving me crazy,” he growls. “Let me see.”

He collects him by a wrist with his left hand (all of two fingers: thumb and index) and Cloud jerks back full body. Reno keeps him caught, not taking any guff, his grip a binding circlet. He examines what he can, how he can, the room dim and getting less dim all the time, but it’s still a hindrance. He can’t tell much; he’s shooting in the dark. He can guess more, and it’s not good. 

He locates the wet rag next to him and readies, hovering above the target before making final contact. He’s giving Cloud all the opportunity to exhibit signs of distress/panic/insanity and offer a nice clue as to the pain level, as well as the possible hidden horror show.

After moments of stiff silence (no panic or insanity, just minor distress and displeasure), Reno kills the suspense, outright pressing the moist fabric to Cloud’s timid palm.

He hisses and retracts, but it’s light enough for Reno to be encouraged. He keeps his circlet engaged and dabs and pats, gentle and precise. Soon, Cloud’s arm and demeanor relax, just an inch, just a tick. He huffs out an annoyed sigh, but he allows him to work. And work he does.

“I’m guessing you’re not gonna let me drag you to the bathroom…”

Reno likes this. He wants this. He isn’t familiar with this side of himself. He soothes and presses, cooling and calming, getting the mud and whatever else underneath softened up. He relishes the peace, enjoying the physical weight and connection as he can, because he all too soon takes it to the next level. He presses hard, quickly swiping off a top layer of muck.

Cloud hisses his disapproval. 

“Tell me if it hurts too much,” Reno whispers.

He makes the association with an inappropriate memory at that, flushing some. Bedroom memories. It has a stronger effect only because of his drained status. He’s thinking (as he’s caretaking; as his wounded hands help Cloud’s wounded hands; as he’s crouched before him naked) about biting and spanking and rope. It’s adding another gooey layer of heat that he doesn’t need over his already prolific fever.

Cloud shakes his head, hair flicking.

_Tell me if it hurts. Because I’m gonna cause you pain. Because I like pain. I know pain._

The burns aren’t bad. They are most certainly painful, yes, and that much can be guessed, but they’re not debilitating, or oozing, or swollen; they’re superficial. Turns out all the blackness was a cocktail of mortared ash and mud. And that’s something Reno can work with.

He finishes with the left and moves onto the right, meeting feeble resistance.

Time has a way of losing them, and as they sit and do their thing, it does its thing, withdrawing and draining, leaving freedom and possible peace in its indifferent wake.

“How do you do that?” Reno notes. “ _How_ do you _always_ come out in _one_ piece?”

Cloud has no answer, of course. He turns his head to the side: a profile half hidden.

Reno finishes the job with no more comments, relinquishing Cloud’s hands back to him cleaner and glistening. The kid simply stares down at them as they open and close on his lap. His face is concealed; his narrative withheld. He’s somewhere else.

Reno avoids the line of thinking that might bring him to that darkness, that genesis, that stormy night. He instead brings the soiled rag with him as he stands upright. Even that comes with its troublesome consequences and the demand for response.

He rises too quickly and almost crashes backwards, _timber_. He doesn’t allude a moment of it (Cloud might not have noticed either way, to his displeasure). He just waits there, frozen, letting the headrush clear, the blood recollect, the oxygen replenish, and then—he’s good.

“I’m... gonna wanna wrap those… They’ll get gross. Maybe infected. If they aren’t on their way already. We got bandages left, right? You had a bunch.” 

Cloud’s only answer is to move for the pile of clothing. He starts rifling through for options.

Reno tries not to take it any which way. He pushes on, turning on his heels. He comes to the bedroom’s door frame, leans through, and hurls the balled rag for the open bathroom door (and the useless bathtub) across the hall.

The cloth slaps the far bathroom wall with an abrupt _smack_ and falls into the tub.

He feels no better.

 

 

Reno takes Cloud’s lead and they dress in relative silence. 

The kid is a machine. He shows no pain, no remorse, no emotion. Nothing but wear. He layers up, finding a pair of navy blue cargo pants, a white t-shirt, and a dressy sort of blue button-up. He’s moving as quickly as he can, tugging on his muddy and melted boots by the very end.

Reno finds himself puking up that cold water and more bile in the bathroom before he’s done. He gets a pair of black dress pants adjusted and buttoned, his knife sorted, and then has to run for the toilet.

He’s moving quite a lot slower than Cloud, and his left arm still isn’t playing nice. With every sluggish movement he’s feeling all the hotter and weaker. Everything is catching up to him with such a wonderful flourish. He’s not so much immortal as he is the walking dead. 

Shirtless and shitty, sweating and sore, he avoids facing himself in the small bathroom mirror. He’s sniffing away the acidic burn and rinsing his mouth out with more glacier water from the faucet. He’s keeping his gaze on his palms or the drain, dead center. It’s working so far.

He knows he looks like shit, he doesn’t need to see it. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t have a morbid curiosity. He has an impressive ego, and he used to have no shame to match, but that’s just brittle remains now: artifacts, fossils, tracks in the sand. He’s probably going to chop all the matted hair off anyway. It won’t impact him. Hair grows back. Fingers, brothers, and lost pals, he’s disappointed to say, _do not_.

Already in the bathroom, tucked away and as private as the door being ajar can provide, he should really do a status check. At the very least, he should clean his throat.

He brings his eyes up to the mirror and follows the latest trend, avoiding his own eyeline. He carefully tilts his head back, chin rocking upwards. The motion stretches the thin flesh and makes him wince. He eyeballs the mess down his nose in the dimmed reflection.

It’s a maroon mass, solid and repulsive. He locates a washcloth from the linen cabinet and wets that under the faucet. He sucks in an anticipatory breath (expecting a chill and a char) and then swabs at the dried blood a heavy layer over a tender tear; an ugly job.

Before long, he forgets he’s using that mirror at all. He splashes his face and gasps at the freezing shock and the lively tingle in his tortured but cleaned throat. What he sees of himself he hardly recognizes anyway.

The morning glow is coming in stronger through the high, frosted window to his side. His hair shows little trace of brilliant red. His face is half and half, still muddied and blackened on one side, white on the other, beat on both. The sword wound is thin and devilishly long, starting under his left ear and reaching so far as his collarbone, but it’s not very deep. It only pulls and aggravates as he talks and moves. It should heal soon, if he can keep his mouth shut. Cloud can wrap it for him after it dries and he’s dressed. Or, more likely, he can try to wrap it himself. Along with his more badly damaged hand. And Cloud’s hands.

He gives that imposter in the mirror a shrewd fix and then makes his exit. He doesn’t find Cloud where he leaves him this time around, and, for that, he gets an unfriendly spike in heart rate and a rush of blistering goosebumps. He quickly gathers his two .45s, their holster, his high-tops, and rushes barefoot and topless out into the front room. He’s stopped there in his sliding tracks.

Cloud is standing over the BDS. It rests on the floor as Reno left it, but some distance from origin. The breaking sunlight is beaming in through the open living room windows and falling upon its dulled surface. A perfect handprint shows stark white against the otherwise sooty black blade.

“Did you do that?” Reno asks, dropping everything but his guns to come up and point.

Cloud shakes his head, _no_.

Reno narrows his eyes, visually inspecting the object and the area around it. It’s bringing back his drunken fit in uncomfortable immediacy. He’s suffering from the after effects enough as it is. He might have dragged the thing inside, tripped over it and kicked at it, but he can't be sure if he touched the blade or not. He was barely conscious. It doesn't make him feel any better either way. It makes his skin crawl. Someone might have been in here.

“We should get moving,” he suggests.

Cloud likes the idea and leans down to lever up the sword by just its handle. He doesn’t show a lick of hesitation or a speck of suffering as his unprotected hands curl and collect it.

With the sunlight beaming in at his back now, Reno is afforded a wonderful and terrible presentation as he looks on, mesmerized and agonized. The kid is glowing, all lit up, holy yet ominous, because at the center of this sunburst... he is utter darkness. It doesn’t get any more symbolic than that. He is eclipsed. His darkness is consuming from the core.

Reno shifts and the image is instantly dislodged, bringing Cloud back to a much less omnipotent being and more of his normal thin, pale and ephemeral self. His borrowed clothes hang off his diminished frame; his bones protrude. He hasn’t done a thing with his hair but shove it off his face, and that face is camouflaged under an uneven layer of flaking clay, scrapes, bruises and exhaustion. He could be ready for espionage. Or the hose. Or eternal rest.

“I gotta finish getting dressed, yo,” Reno mutters, moving things right along. “That colour looks good on you, by the way. Brings out the whatever in your you-know-what. Well. It was clearly meant for someone not emaciated though. And your buttons are all screwy.”

Reno points to him and Cloud follows the finger to glance downwards.

The fact that he regards it even for an instant—let alone _gives up_ the freaky fucking sword and starts redoing the messy job—ignites in Reno a glimmer of maddening hope, and maddening regret. Cloud’s hearing him. He’s present enough. He’s not as bad as he has been or could be.

Reno watches those long fingers work for several beats, languid and liquid, getting through many buttons uneasily, and some after many tries. The fleshy pink burns are out of sight, but not his mind. Every triumph and fumble is a slash to Reno’s raggedy heartstrings. He realizes just how much he’s out of it only when his eyes eventually blink, sure and steady, and stingingly arid. He takes a painful breath in and retreats to the bedroom.

He finds himself an undershirt and a forest green turtleneck sweater among the remaining clothes. He does up his holster and squelches into his still soggy high-tops. He's not too thrilled with the lack of options, and socks, but fugitive beggars can't be fugitive choosers. He's mismatched, filthy dirty and mostly dry. At least he can say that much.

“Hold on,” he tells Cloud, popping in for a moment.

He retrieves their rucksacks and dares to leave Cloud in the front room once more while he canvases the kitchen and bathroom for those needed supplies. Canned or boxed food and bottled water; medicine and potions; remedies and eye drops. The whole lot. Whatever could be useful or catches his failing fancy. He dumps it all between their two rucksacks, in no particular order, and meets Cloud a heartbeat later where he stood like a statue staring at the sword. Now they should be able to get far away from here, and maybe even to where they want to go.

“I’m ready whenever you are, yo,” he says, breathless.

They make eye contact from across the room. It’s heavy, static, downright stimulating. It speaks of many things, and maybe it’s states of mind, places, situations past, and future intentions. Or, maybe it’s just a look, and there’s nothing there at all but more maddening, obnoxious hope.

Reno understands one thing and stays quiet. He stares right back until Cloud finally breaks and turns aside, making to leave. Either way, at the end of the day, and the long, hard road… the moment is lost. They’re left with each other: two of a pair that need the strong end, the bookend, to stand upright, and their bookends are dead and gone.

Reno takes up both rucksacks with one arm (his only good arm), and leans far to the right as a result. He sneers to himself, and the insulting illustration, and trudges after.

On their way out, he tries to have them make yet another stop, suggesting they snag the jackets hanging on the hooks by the front door. It’s another good idea, but Cloud ignores this detour. 

The one Reno grabs is a blessing, to use such a disgusting term, but it really is. He almost feels favoured; he almost feels like this could be the beginning of the long, slow, and hard road to a possible turn around. The thing fits well, has a hood, and isn’t a bright colour. He takes the one left over for Cloud, tucking it into an already over-stuffed rucksack. His mood improves, moving notches, but it’s still well below a livable level. 

Cloud is still stuck as the vagabond orphan child. His outfits are always a few sizes too large.

“You should eat something,” Reno suggests. “I found cereal bars…”

Cloud dismisses the suggestion, as to be expected. He foregoes any more advice and hoists up that BDS to drag it along behind him, heavy as a heart attack in his tender hands. It’s not an easy process. Not to watch and not to take on.

Through the threshold, beyond the front door, and out into the open, the stage is lit. The sun beats down and birds chirp; wisps of fog dissipate and wind stirs. The only evidence of the rainstorm is the muddy plaza and standing puddles. The circular plain is saturated and sketchy and filled with the debris of Zack’s blown to shit house now just a crumbled foundation and ash. It’s a blackened smudge.

“Beautiful morning,” Reno notes, more to himself than anyone else at this point.

Cloud passes him by, moving ever onward, tugging the BDS over the doorjamb with him. He slides up to the few steps down to the washed out plaza below and immediately takes them on.

“I already… checked the house,” Reno offers, speaking up behind him. He almost finds a distant relative of his standard confidence as he continues. “I looked around last night. Didn't find anything. And I _really_ looked. I wasn’t drunk... until later, yo. There was nothing… but _that_.”

Cloud proceeds, step by step, not deterred an inch. He thumps _that_ , the sword’s blade, down every wooden plank, nearly to the bottom now, two seconds from making treacherous landfall.

“I take that back,” Reno spits out, knowing Cloud will find out the truth, and then his lie.

The kid pauses on that final strenuous step, just before the end.

“I found… there's a…” Reno stammers, dropping the weight of the rucksacks at least.

But, he gives him so little time. Cloud completes that stride, touching down both boots wetly, one after the other, and makes to trudge on into oblivion and the new day. The BDS thumps hard twice down the staircase, _bang bang_ , and then splashes into the mud right after him.

“A _hand_ ,” Reno snaps, going for broke.

Cloud stops, footwear lost in the semi-solid sludge, sword sinking deeply.

“Well, a _bone_ hand,” he explains, liking that even less. “It was… all burned up...” He feels himself wanting to panic and abort, regretting that he can’t see any of Cloud’s face. “It… _had_ to have been the Director’s... I’d put money on it.” And there, he has an epiphany. “Those soldiers wouldn’t have split unless he fucked up. He got torched. That piece of shit captain was lying, man. He’s all that’s in there. It’s just junk and...”

Cloud stands concrete. A bird squawks high up in the trees. The wind switches directions. Reno swallows thickly and carefully, and then he’s witnessing the kid’s eventual reaction.

Cloud is shrugging and deflating. He’s leaning with the monumental weight of the sword in his hands. It’s like an anchor, a base, a pillar. His head drops his chin to his chest, stiff hair falling in sections. Reno can see the delicate back of his neck and his gears turning. He can see him physically figuring out his next move. But, they both know what that’s going to be already.

Cloud squares up and moves into the town center, and for that very junk.

Reno grinds his teeth and let's him go. He can't stop him. He wants to turn him aside, steer him somewhere else, save him the pain, but he can’t, and he shouldn’t. Cloud has to have a look-see for himself and find out on his own, if this is how it’s going to be. He has to start dealing with it now. And hopefully he doesn’t choose to hop farther down a hole where Reno can't reach him.

They’re both at their worst. They’re both hurting. And they’ve been here. This is everything they’ve tasted before. Any intervention from Reno would most likely end in their messiest and most volatile of bouts to date. Reno’s gotten a preview, so he should have a good idea. This is exactly how they looked after Zack went and died in the Midgar badlands, round one. Cloud flipped, nearly tore Reno’s throat out, and then gave him the silent treatment for days. DAYS.

He is aware that his next few moves in the next few hours will determine their relationship from here on. How he comforts, consoles and backs off as needed will be every major factor.

Cloud withdraws, leaving him where he stands on the house’s porch landing. He crosses the plaza, digging out a line behind him with that damn sword, and starts the motions of going through what remains of Zack’s house while Reno waits and watches. And braces.

He stands at first, now he’s sitting on the steps that aren’t muddied. He observes Cloud walk the wreckage like someone might tour a cemetery. He doesn’t sift or pull and dig at the debris. He bends down only once and then carries on. He is reverent, moving slowly and carefully.

Maybe he knows something Reno doesn’t. Maybe he’s already resigned to the scope and reality of things. Maybe he and Zack had some universal connection, an eternal bond, and Cloud just _knows_ it’s over. He has no hope. This is resignation disguised as acceptance. That’s why he raged so hard before and is so calm now. He is the tangible manifestation of a wandering ghost haunting the landmark of his dead devotion. And it takes all of several minutes.

Reno would have given him all day.

Cloud returns without a word, eyes downcast and distant. He leaves the BDS stuck upright in the soft ground at the base of the steps and rises, reaching Reno’s level, and then reaches higher still for their rucksacks. He's searching, on a mission, and it takes him several digs, switching between the two, but he comes up successful. Zack's cigarettes are in his hand.

That annoys the piss out of Reno.

“What are you doing?” he growls, ducking to catch Cloud’s covered eyes.

The kid turns and leaves him again, taking every other porch step down.

“I’m _talking_ to you,” Reno calls, standing now, motivated now.

His guts bind and his head thuds; his stomach rumbles and rolls, sloshing acid and yuck all the way to the back of his throat, but he leaves it at that. And he can leave it at that, because he’s following him down to the mud and into the town square, fixing to do something about it.

He forgets about their rucksacks and their getaway. He forgets about how sick and tired he still is (and might always be). He forgets about that handprint. He’s got one priority, and that priority has already pulled a cigarette from the pack and is click-clicking the plastic lighter away near his face. His trembling and previously torched hands seem to help him none.

Reno catches him as they meet the edge of the ruins. He deftly circles around to snatch the lighter, and gets a wonderful glare for it. But, he doesn’t confiscate the item, he turns it back against him, clicking it to life on the first strike.

The flame dances and whirls. The cigarette smolders and lights.

Cloud’s eyes drop and slide away. 

“He’d hate that you're doing that,” Reno remarks.

That sadness is fleeting, replaced by a scowl and knitted brow.

_Strike one._

 

 

_Status: Fugitive - Location: Gongaga_

Cloud’s first inhale is a choking, burning fit.

His first burning, choking thought: _I hate that he’s DEAD._

Reno keeps eyeing him, still situated incredibly close, still offering that same air of worry and love that's been clinging and clambering since Cloud woke up to the end of the world as he knew it. And Reno hasn’t stopped, watching him or checking in on him, or pouring out his feelings and concerns. He must not be aware of the severity of his demeanor either. He would be grasping for cool and collected if he did, but here he is exuding only distress.

Cloud clamps tight his jaw, takes another puff, and coughs dryly and deeply.

Reno winces and waves at the smoke.

“Oh, I—”

_Hate the smell._

Cloud rolls his eyes and looks away.

“Guessing you didn’t find anything either? So, uh... We should get a plan in action. Some kind of idea. You know me and plans… and ideas... I'm thinking… we pick up and head for the Gold Saucer,” Reno offers, not shutting up for a moment.

_What makes you think I want to go anywhere with you?_

Cloud glowers. He puffs and coughs.

“I know people out there. We can get a room for a few nights, lie low, not bet on chocobo races, collect ourselves, and maybe figure some shit out...”

Cloud doesn't want to leave, but he can't stay. Reno’s already on part two, and probably into part three. He’s somewhere in the future Cloud can’t see, and doesn’t want to. Not without him.

The cigarette is halfway gone. It’s been minutes in passing with the sun low and bright, right at eye level, blinding and brilliant. The sunrise is glorious. The day is going to be beautiful. And that’s a sour joke. That’s just another line for Cloud’s furrowing forehead.

His lungs and throat are done for. He's agitating his already angry headache with every stubborn and unskilled drag of tobacco smoke. He wants to be ash and smoke too.

Reno yammers on, caring and cautious, and _stupid, stupid, stupid_.

“We can double back and pick up the tent. It’s not gonna be fun, or easy, but shit. It hasn’t been so far… Done plenty of walking already. We can do a little more. And then we can convalesce for a week. I promise. I’ll make sure of it.”

Reno's impossible, but he's loyal. No matter if that loyalty is an off-brand of his stubbornness. And want. That’s made him impossible to get rid of thus far. He said Cloud was stuck with him the very first time in Junon, just before their boat trip. He caught him in an alley, pressed him against a wall, ocean moist and intimate, and swore himself to Cloud. He signed right up. But, he pinned the whole thing on him. _You’re_ stuck with me. Not, _I’m_ stuck with you. Because it’s easier to handle that way. Because Reno’s still an opportunist. And an ass.

Cloud answered with the very same thing then as he would answer with now…

_Not if I don’t want to be._

For now, he's just going to be hurt and angry, and hope that his badly contained spiral downward quickly pushes Reno away. If it turns out that he’s gone when Cloud surfaces, well, that’s all the better. It will save him the trouble of painful rejection after painful rejection. It should also save Reno his accelerated and unpleasant ending by association.

The cigarette burns all the way to his cold fingers. The sudden singe and sting startles him into dropping what’s left of it into the muck to instantly sizzle out at their feet.

Reno hisses, those tide-pool-blue eyes narrowing in sympathy.

Cloud chews his tongue.

They’re standing in front of where they last saw Zack. He stepped through his front door and melted away. Right here. At this very point. That’s where he lost him.

Now that his task is complete, he can leave Gongaga much like he left Nibelheim. This is the end of the road. It’s time to turn around and strike a new path. It’s time to keep moving, or quit for good. At this point, he’s going to walk until he can’t anymore. He has no guide.

He avoids waiting around in the gloom and thoughts, and turns aside to take up the great sword. He left it at his side, standing tall and sunken in the muck like a gravestone. It doesn’t come easily. He tries to lift it, grunting a dismal grunt through his clenched teeth, palms screaming out. A rash of heat and sweat slick his brow. He leans right over it instead.

Reno’s on him immediately.

“You don’t have to—”

_Shut up, shut up, shut up._

“Cloud.”

_Leave me alone._

He tries again too soon, angry now, filled with something, feeling something, beyond the smart of his split and crackling skin. He dislodges the sword and accepts its full weight, letting it fall into his hands to pull his arms taut. He centers and calms, pain abundant, and then he struggles forward, pushing back the way he came and through the town square, headed for the path and the next crash landing, or the next fire, or the next explosion. Without his other half.

He can see a glimpse of his future now.

He has to return this big damn sword.

“What did I do to deserve this?”

That comes through loud and clear.

Cloud’s legs lock and he stops stock-still.

That’s cruel. That almost stings.

He inhales a hitching breath, flexes his marred hands, and forces himself forward. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to leave. He wishes for the option of being able to believe and hope, beyond reason, that he could be alive, that he’s waiting, that he’s going to hear his voice again, but he can’t even do that. He _knows_ it’s over. He _feels_ it. The absence is stunning and cold, and it’s vast and... heavy in his hands; heavier in his heart. He has to carry on. He has to go alone. He has to get distance. Reno shouldn’t have to deal with a moment of it.

“You wanna leave me here, huh?”

But, he’s already caught up.

“You wanna go on alone?”

He’s been hurt and wounded.

“I've got serious problems but you're _not_ one of them.”

He’s gutted and only pouring those guts out the more, messy and steaming and still-beating, and Cloud wants him to stop. He wants it gone, that lust and loyalty, and whatever else it is; every last shred clawed, or slapped, or punched away. Before it gets Reno killed. Because it will.

“You’ve turned me around, yo. You’re making me _rethink_ things. You saved my life. And you didn’t have to. You’re making me _want_ to try harder and be better, and _worry_ about shit. You’re making me regret everything I was ever proud of once. I’ve invested too much to give up now. I don’t…”

There’s a long pause, but Cloud knows he’ll continue, because Reno always continues. He followed him across a desert and an ocean, just as he’s following him through the mud and mire, crossing the abandoned town with him now, every word a sharp resonance. 

“I don’t know who the fuck I am anymore.”

The sword in Cloud’s hands, and the figure behind him, and the town around him—it’s all immense.

“You’re stuck with me the way I am, yo. I said I’ll carry you... but I’ll fucking _chase you_ if I have to, man. I’ll stalk you day and night. I’ll watch your back whether you like it or not. I’ll come running in when you least expect it and save the day. Just to piss you off.”

Cloud heaves and almost slips, avoiding a topple. He scowls, resets and starts anew.

“I’ll help you carry it too,” Reno urges, at his elbows, at his throat, electing to shred all of Cloud’s battered heart to pulp this very morning, this very moment, and without a second thought.

He’s been tapped out since he lost his brother, Cloud knows it. He understands that to the core. Reno gave himself so little time to mourn. He’s still in mourning. He hasn’t eased or slept or stopped buzzing and thinking and moving. He hasn’t been able to lift his left arm. He hasn’t been grinning that dire wolf grin. He’s not robust and red, but he is rock solid. He’s still pushing.

Cloud doesn’t want to watch him crumble too.

“Don’t run off,” Reno demands, trying to be the good guy; trying for soft and subtle. “Don’t hide in your rabbit hole. You know the score. You know we can do this. We’ve done this already. Just because you don't ask for something, doesn't mean you don't need it.”

Cloud is tasting blood meanwhile. He’s smelling fumes and fire and…

_Help me. Only, no. Don’t._

He stops and hangs over the sword to catch his breath.

_Don’t help me. Stop helping me. You helping me is hurting me. You’re showcasing how weak I am. You’re putting yourself in danger. I can’t let you. I can’t. I want to stop. I want to._

But, then he keeps right on going. He drags the sword all the way from the plaza and to the entrance archway.

_Go away, Reno. Go home. Go drink somewhere. Leave me alone._

He doesn’t say a word of it. He shakes his head and suffers the sword, the torch, his devotion and duty. He slogs and toils, and Reno curses and complains, matching his every step.

“What’s to be fucking _sad_ about anyway?” Reno growls, leaning in close, pouring on that fiery flavour Cloud knows better than his sympathy any day. “What’s to be fucking _mad_ about? What’s to regret? _Huh_? _He_ fixed you, _he_ loved you, _he_ beat the bad guy, _he_ died _victorious_. Way to go, Zack. Good fucking job. I’d clap if I could _lift my fucking ARM_.”

They pass the felled mile marker that once stood at the center of town.

Only one word is legible among the many busted signs.

_Gold._

“At least you got _that_ , man. Look at what I got. Look at my fucking awesome roster, man. You say you lost your eye already, right? But, I see it right there. It’s _right fucking there_. I lost most of my _fucking fingers_ , and you know what I see when _I_ look down…”

He gestures as much as he can.

“ _Three missing fingers_.”

He sniffs, coughs and lays it on.

“I’m getting sick. I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t tired, or hurting, or pissed off, or scrambling for a sense of… _anything_ … I’m down a brother. I’m down a job. I’m down a badass image. I’m sexually frustrated. I’m... the last choice… Or _no choice_ at all. And I keep _repeating_ all of this. Like it’s going to _fucking change_. _That’s_ shitty. _That’s_ something to get upset about...”

Reno stops and drops back. Cloud pushes ahead several steps in peace. He thinks nothing of it until Reno surfaces again to come up and put himself smack dab in the middle of his intended path, impeding progress. Cloud does not stall or glance up, he pushes into him.

“Don't make me do anything _else_ I'll regret,” Reno suggests, a rumble rising from his rasping chest. He’s standing as firm as a sick and tired individual can. “I'm not above whaling on you... if I know it's for your own good. Trust me. Your black eye is _begging_ for a buddy...”

Cloud nudges forward and Reno shoves him back, knocking and spinning Cloud’s shoulders to the side, uneven and unforgiving. Cloud flounders several steps, unbalanced. The sword drops solidly to the ground beside them. Reno’s stormy eyes are crystal clear for all of seconds, fleeting and flashing. It’s sudden and without much more warning than his prefacing words. His body betrays nothing. His speed is fabulous.

The sting of the slap widens Cloud’s eyes. He is shocked, staggering; face burning, eyes blinking away compulsive and dreaded tears. And then he’s furious. Downright vicious.

Reno’s expression is guarded and stony.

Cloud gives him his best glare, readying to leap.

“What the hell am I doing here!?” Reno roars into his face.

Cloud flinches back, rage rebuttaled. 

“Why am I here!?” Reno screams, only able to toss the one arm angrily.

He staggers away, criss-crossing the drying path. He slaps his hand over his face, fingers splayed wide to cover as much surface area as possible. He wheels and turns, groaning, stopping there, back turned. His whole body hitches and shudders. He’s hunched over himself.

It takes a hazy minute for Cloud to realize what he’s doing, and as soon as he does, he’s feeling panicked and horrified, and truly stung this time, every agonized nuance flaring.

_Oh, shit. He’s finally lost it._

Reno continues to quiver until he can’t anymore. He soon drops his tight shoulders, hisses, and sighs long and loud. When he turns back around, he’s rubbing at his closed eyes with the back of his right hand. He’s a wreck, and not hiding it well, and probably not trying too hard. This is a sad facsimile of Reno.

“Anyway,” he breathes, voice liquidy thick. He rubs that hand down his face, dropping it to his side to join the other. His features are left pained and blood-drained. He coughs and clears his throat before proceeding. “Listen to me. Just _stop_ and _listen_ to me. Let’s work together on this. Let’s _go_ together. I don’t know anywhere better than the Saucer. And it’s a straight shot from here. And you don’t care anyway. That can be our plan. Okay? Can you do that for me?”

He’s drifted back up to him, eyes unsettling yet level. “And maybe… just _one_ more thing?”

He regards Cloud. It’s an open inspection. Here’s a vulnerable and naked request for assistance. Cloud bears it, by a force of habit, a weakness, a nail in the coffin. He sees his red eyes, glassy and lidded. His face is not so drained from here, it’s flushed and feverish. His expression is not guarded or stony anymore. He’s ashamed, crawling and uncomfortable. Fresh blood runs from his aggravated injuries. Red is still his primary colour.

Cloud wants to comfort him just as much as he wants to twist the knife.

He gives Reno a shrug and makes to take up the dropped sword.

“ _Great_ , thanks,” Reno grits. “Don’t help me then… I get it, yo. Don’t help the guy that was tasked to control you, gave you a black eye and hated your boyfriend… I just... need someone…” He trails off, finishing quietly. “...to help me. That’s all.” He doesn’t stay quiet for long though. “My throat needs wrapping. It itches, and I can’t see it, and I didn’t want to do it in the bathroom, when I could have, because it needed to air out… and my hands are shaking, and my _fucking shoulder_... and I’m already bleeding all over my new clothes. Give me a hand. Help a bastard out.” He pauses, fumbling, physically biting out the word. “ _Please?_ ”

Cloud sighs and stands up, leaving the sword untouched.

 

 

With Gongaga rising some ways in the distance they take another pause.

Reno took it upon himself to grab those two fully-loaded and vital rucksacks they left back on the porch. He announced his plan and then backpedaled his retreat up the path, giving Cloud a stern look and an accusatory point, as if to say: _you better stay there_.

And he did. Cloud stood at the mile marker and waited, propped against the post-like BDS he eventually got to pick up. Reno reappeared bent underneath the weight of both rucksacks tasked to one shoulder. He was laden and leaning, pale and puffing, but resolved, almost as if it was his duty; his burden; his side of the raw deal.

As Cloud digs around now, looking for those clean bandages he knows he has, he confronts the chaos of items therein a second time. They both have a nice spread, but Reno wasn’t careful when he scoured and emptied the house. Searching and burrowing for what feels like minutes on end, Cloud finally pulls the unused roll of gauze free by a corner. It draws out long and unraveled.

They’ve set up on a fat, felled palm log beside the path. Cloud is situated before Reno, his legs tucked in, rucksack in lap. The sword rests diagonal on its sooty blade behind him. Reno has sprawled and stretched sideways, retaining _too cool for school_. His rucksack is on the log beside him and out of the moist dirt. 

The bandaging process is tedious. Reno’s looking to the sky and treeline most of the time, his head rocked back, his breathing rough and heavy in his shallowly expanding chest. Cloud’s fingers aren’t steady, but his arms don’t fail. They’re tired and weak from dragging the sword already. He’s had physical training, and he went through bootcamp, but he’s never been a powerhouse. He’s built like a damn paper doll. He’s skimming the thin veneer of his dangerous thoughts, and somehow staying undisturbed.

He’s left staring into Reno’s unguarded face. His neck is bright white against all the grime. It reminds him of Zack and every time he had to change his bandages. Whether it be after he was run through by Sephiroth, or concerning his eyes, day to day, Cloud did it for him so many times. He can’t avoid the correlation.

Reno adds just more poison and mumbles his thanks as Zack would have: an apprehensive appreciation. 

“Can I try to wrap up your hands now?” he asks.

It doesn’t take long for him to pick up where he left off, more or less.

Cloud doesn’t respond, like he would have, should have, could have. He’s almost thankful for the distraction, but he keeps his eyes pointed downward and unwittingly welcomes another grim reminder.

He spies the sleeve of the t-shirt that had been put into the rucksack a millennia ago. It’s an article that belonged to Zack for a brief period of time. Something Cloud had picked out. Something he had helped Reno pull over his head as he lay unconscious and on the brink. It’s also a sign of their first time, and just another wound, just another heartbreak. He can’t take it.

Still, he feels sure he will swallow this panic, like bad medicine, because he had been doing well, distant and numb, empty and cold—because he understands, he’s _gone, gone, gone_ —but then he takes one shaky inhale and it turns out it’s a sob that’s on the other end.

He whimpers and breaks right down. He claws his face and hair, and then dismounts the log, throwing his arms to the sky, fed up. The rucksack flies and its contents scatter over the path. He is outraged by his reaction, overwhelmed by his weakness, and the item, the t-shirt, like a whisper, an echo, more alive than Zack will ever be again.

“ _Whoa_! What, what, what?” Reno rambles, springing up with him.

He only has to look at him, angry and sniveling, and he knows. Reno advances and gathers him, folding him right into his chest and collarbone with his only good arm. No other words need to be exchanged. The grip is tight and stable and not going to easily let him go, so Cloud should just give up and give in, and, you know what? He does. 

He grabs onto Reno, wraps his arms around his middle, narrow and nothing, shoves his face into his chest, and squeezes. He slumps and succumbs. He lets himself feel it. Some of it. He sobs out his ocean of tears while Reno consoles, repeating and promising, words he doesn’t hear, but desires and deserves. They stand on the path that leads to nothing, that came from nothing, and they hold onto each other for as long as they can.

He hitches in every rapid breath moments later, spent and hollowed deeper. The sun shines into his over-sensitive eyes, so he closes them tight, shutting out the world and any other reminders. His arms tremble and fight to hang on. His head is light and airy; his lungs aching and strained.

“No, we couldn’t save him,” Reno mumbles. “But. We _tried_ , didn’t we?”

Reno’s palm rubs and presses between Cloud’s shoulder blades. His arm encircles and holds. He is the very size and shape of the person that’s missing in his life. He could almost fit.

“I’m… I have to apologize for hitting you… Twice... And I’m… sorry he’s…”

He pulls back to create a more direct line, but he’s just as quickly closing it again when he moves forward. He leaves no room for dispute and carefully kisses Cloud’s tears and his cheeks, one to the other, overwhelmingly kind and gentle, and all too brief.

Cloud moans in his throat, raw and agonized, and opens his wet eyes.

“We _told_ him. We warned him. We followed him. We stayed. We watched. We fought. We bled. We _tried_ , man. We _fucking_ tried. There wasn’t… _a lot_ we could do… But, we did it.”

And he smiles, age old, timeless, and irritating as fuck.

Reno smiles that very same, _very first_ smile, back from the dead.

“So... we should hold our heads high then, right?”

He nods to himself, urging Cloud to do the same.

Cloud sniffs, eyes hooded and drying, but slowly he nods too.

Reno leans in once more, this time to kiss Cloud’s forehead, and this time it lasts.

By the end, who knows where they’ll really find themselves.

That’s an entirely different story.

 

 

_Status: End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Thank you for taking the time out of your day to trudge through my incredibly long and incredibly ridiculous story. You made it through. Give yourself a pat on the back. You deserve it.
> 
> Now carry on the torture in part two...


End file.
